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Douglas; Tender and True. 


BY 



ST. LOUIS: 

NIXON-JONES PRINTING CO., 
210 - 212 Pine St. 

1892 . 




I 



Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1892, by 
JOHN M. PINCKNEY, 

in the office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington. 


« 


Press of Nixon-Jones Ptg. Co., 
St. Louis. 


EDICATION 





fO the Missing soldiers of the late 
great Civil War. To those South- 

ERN HEROES, WHO FOUGHT AND FELL 

for a Cause they could not save, is this 

LITTLE VOLUME LOVINGLY AND RESPECTFULLY 



DEDICATED. 


The Authoress. 






Douglas; Tender and true.- 


CHAPTER I. 

t TALL blonde man of handsome face and 
distinguished appearance — a man born 
to rule among men — to be admired, caressed 
and loved by women — a “ king among men,” 
he had often been termed — and looking even 
with a casual glance at Godfrey Dacre, as on 
that lovely Sabbath morn, with free and easy 
grace he strode into the modest village church, 
you would have said that he fully deserved the 
title. Tall, well-proportioned, a strongly built, 
firmly knit frame, a regal head crowned with 
sunny curls, face fair as a woman’s, eyes of the 
soft pansy hue so lovely in woman, more than 
lovely in the sterner sex. In those soul-lit eyes, 
as well as the caressing voice was the charm that 
won all hearts. As the church began to fill he 
sat there with all the lazy indifference of a 

( 5 ) 


6 


DOUGLAS ; TENDER AND TRUE. 


“ looker-on in Vienna.” “ If the sermon proves 
as primitive as is the congregation, I will scarce- 
ly be paid for my walk hither,” said he. A mo- 
ment and the careless languor is all gone — 
an eager look is on the handsome face as his 
gaze rests on the face of a slender girl who, with 
graceful steps, walked up the aisle — a girl ar- 
rayed in a dress of cream nun’s-veiling, no trim- 
ming, except soft creamy lace at throat and 
wrists, a tea-rose in the soft folds at her throat 
the only ornament she wore. A white hat with 
drooping plume rested on the dainty coronal of 
braided hair that crowned her young head ; hair 
dark and glossy, small oval face lit up by soft 
eyes. It was not so much the dainty loveliness 
of the pale face as it was the sweetness mirrored 
from the dark eyes that charmed the man who 
gazed upon her. In the thirty years of his life, 
where had he seen aught so fair? Surely mag- 
netism was in his glance, for the girl, raising her 
eyes, met his gaze. A wave of crimson passed 
over her face, deepening even the delicate sea- 
shell tint of the pretty ears, while the brown eyes 
drooped in shy confusion. Entering her pew, busy 


DOUGLAS; TENDER AND TRUE. 


7 


with her book of prayers, she met not again that 
adoring glance, for his eyes were scarcely taken 
from her face. “ That is my destiny, she shall 
be my wife,” he murmured, and his heart beat 
wildly as he registered the silent vow. The ser- 
mon ! Had he heard it? Had his life depended 
on it not even the text could he have told. No 
religious lore had he been learning. A sweeter 
draught had he in one second drank from the 
dark eyes of that dainty girl than his soul in all 
those years, had ever known. The services over, 
and before the doorway was thronged, the young 
girl had passed out. 

“ Sir, one moment!” A withered hand was 
on his coat sleeve. “ The young lady in white 
dropped this. Will you hasten and give it to 
her?” 

“ With pleasure,” said the gentleman, taking 
the snowy handkerchief of lawn perfumed with 
the faintest touch of violet. He would love 
violet until the hour of his death. Pushing his 
way through the crowd he saw the small, slender 
form going up the main street of the village. 
It took not many of his long swinging strides 


8 


DOUGLAS ; TENDER AND TRUE. 


(his graceful languor, his love of ease was all for- 
gotten) to bring him to her side. She turned 
her head and again the color dyed her face from 
brow to throat. 

‘‘Permit me/’ he said, handing her the lost 
article. 

“ Oh ! thank you. I had not missed it. You 
were kind to take all this trouble.” The shy 
„ eyes were, for a moment, lifted to his own. 

“ It proves the greatest pleasure of my life.” 
And the ring of sincerity in his voice startled her. 
“ As our destination is in the same direction, 
perhaps you will let me be your escort. May I 
introduce myself? I am Godfrey Dacre, at your 
service.” 

“ My name,” she said, “ is Cecile Clare.” 

“ What a pretty name ! ” he said. 

He chatted pleasantly and deemed that the 
walk had been far too short, when in a few 
moments they reached the cottage where she 
lived. Bowing his adieu, he said: “I am a 
stranger here, not a friendly voice to which I 
can listen, not a friendly face to look at. Will 
you take pity on my loneliness and let me call 


DOUGLAS ; TENDER AND TRUE. 


9 


upon you? Please, may I?” The soft caress- 
ing tone that won all women, was more soft and 
caressing now. 

“ Yes. ” Was all she said. 

“ Then, may I come to-morrow evening?” 

“If it will give you pleasure.” She replied. 

He returned to his boarding house. The 
time seemed long. Would the morrow never 
come, then when morning came, “ Will the 
evening never come? ” he asked himself a thou- 
sand times. He was like a school boy in his 
happiness as the time approached, and happier 
when he stood in that small parlor and watched 
the sweet color come and go on the dainty high- 
bred face, as he told how he had longed for 
the evening time to come. “ I am all alone and 
while I am here, you must pitty my loneliness 
and let me come often. May I? ” 

She could not resist those winning tones, and 
again she told him that he might come. Evening 
after evening found him in that little parlor, 
seated by her side. Shy and sweet in her man- 
ner to him; yet he had heard that she could 
have been the village belle, yet would never re- 


10 • DOUGLAS; TENDER AND TRUE. 

ceive attention from any of the young men of 
the neighborhood. More than one he had been 
told, had been attracted by her loveliness, and 
would have paid her court, but her painful shy- 
ness held them all aloof. 

His heart throbbed, too, with an undefined feel- 
ing of joy as he heard the remark, that she was 
alone in the world, not a relation far or near. 
He would have her to himself, would make 
her his very own. Weeks had elapsed, still he 
lingered at the village. One evening he took 
her walking, seeking a quiet part of the park, he 
found a seat for her on one of the little rustic 
benches beneath the trees, and stood looking at 
her, thinking it the fairest, most perfect picture 
on earth. Looking up in her shy way, she met 
the impassioned gaze, her eyes fell and a banner 
of red flamed over the pale face. 

“ Perhaps we had better walk on; you see 
every one is at the other side of the park.” 

“No,” and he laughed a glad happy laugh, 
“ I am very well contented here, you are the one 
I wish to be with — not them. Don’t tear that 
pretty flower to pieces, I will want it ;” as he 


DOUGLAS ; TENDER AND TRUE. 


11 


sat beside her and took both hands in his own. 
“ Look me in the face and tell me why you made 
that suggestion about going where those other 
people are.” 

“ Of course I will tell you.” Her eyes still 
downcast. 

“ Yes but you are not looking at me.” 

“ I will look at you, as I say that it seems 
nicer to be in the fashion as other people are ; so 
many are enjoying the music of the band, and 
the nice promenade, and we are losing both.” 
Fora second the lovely eyes looked into his own. 

“ So you are for the fashion of the thing.” 
and he laughed, “suppose I say that my busi- 
ness cares have made me weary, and that I feel 
like resting.” 

“ Ah, if that is the case we will not move on, 
yet you did not seem very weary as you stood 
there a moment since.” 

A low laugh from him. “Yes, shall I tell you, 
even then I was wondering which was most rest- 
ful a place on the green sward at your feet, or a 
seat bv your side, and I chose the latter, and 
now,” taking the crushed rose, he picked leaf 


12 


DOUGLAS; TENDER AND TRUE. 


after leaf from where they had fallen on her 
dress, “ we will have a quiet chat, first I must 
put these away as mementos of a very happy 
evening.” Taking a note book he placed them 
within, dating the page and returned it to his 
pocket. “ Tell me,” there was suppressed eag- 
erness in his voice, “ is there any one who has 
the right to object to your whiling away some of 
your spare time with me?” 

“ No, there is no one who can claim any of my 
time ; you see since papa died I have been all 
alone,” the sweet voice quivered. 

“Then we can be friends; our loneliness a 
common bond of sympathy.” 

“ Are you then, also alone in the world? ” she 
asked. 

“ Did I not tell you that here I was all alone? 
Only a traveling agent for a mercantile firm, first 
at one place, then at another, not long enough 
anywhere to find a home, or to make a friend 
until I met you.” As they arose to go, he said, 
“ I will prove to you that I am quite over my 
fatigue. I claim for to-night, the moonlight 
promenade you promised me.” 


DOUGLAS; TENDER AND TRUE. 


13 


“Not to-night,” she said. 

“Please do not disappoint me. I want to 
tell you what I thought of you when first I saw 
you in the old church yonder. Say that you will 
come, and I will even promise never to again 
insist.” One glance into his eyes and she mur- 
mured an assent. 

The same night as they with many others, 
walked about the park, he chatted of many 
things, then taking her to where the moonlight 
fell in silvery radiance and seemed to envelop 
her in its glistening sheen, she so fairy-like and 
sweet in her white dress, a soft lace veil thrown 
over her dark hair. “ I must see you while I tell 
of what I thought when first I saw your face.” 
He had taken both small hands in his own strong 
grasp. “ Look at me with your sweet truthful 
eyes. As you came into the church that day, 
I seemed to see the gates of heaven open, and 
as I met your eyes, those sweet eyes, dear love, 
my heart whispered 4 she shall be my wife.’ 
Look up, love, and tell me that my heart did not 
play me false? only one glance, my sweet.” For 
a second the shy eyes were raised to his own, her 


14 


DOUGLAS; TENDER AND TRUE. 


hands trembled in his grasp. That brief glance 
answered him, for he folded her to his heart. 
4 ‘Heaven bless you, my darling, my own, my 
very own. I will fill your life with love and 
brightness, and never shall you regret this night, 
the happiest of my life.” 

Often in after years came back those words, 
and oh, what a world of regret was hers. 

“ I will make you happy. I swear it, love. 
Look at me, and say I will be your wife.” As 
she softly whispered the words, he covered her 
face with kisses. “ Oh ! my darling, you have 
made me the happiest man in all the world.” 

“ I think,” she said, “ that my heart went out 
to you when first I saw you.” 

“ I only wished to hear those sweet words. 
You have no ties of kindred, you are mine. I 
cannot be without you. I may go from here at 
a moment’s notice, indeed I think very soon. 
Will you marry me at once, please let it be to- 
morrow ? ” 

“Oh! not so soon,” she said. “How can I get 
ready in so short a time? ” 

“I will tell you,” and she felt for the first 


DOUGLAS; TENDER AND TRUE. 


15 


time the masterful power of his \*>ice. “ You 

are what I want — no great trousseau — your 
dress to be the lovely dress that I first saw 
my darling in ; so to-morrow evening, my sweet, 
you will be ready. I will have the minister 
at the little church, and will be there to claim 
my wife. Look at me, love, those dear lips 
will never say me nay.” He held her in his 
arms, he kissed the lovely face until she prom- 
ised all he asked. “ You shall never regret it,” 
he said. 

“ I trust you fully. You are the only man in 
the world I love,” she answered. 

“ And I swear it, sweet, no other woman has 
ever held a place in my heart. To-night we say 
good-bye ; to-morrow you are mine forever.” 

A strange bridal, no guests were there, no 
grand wedding party, no bells pealed forth a 
joyous air. No organ’s notes rang out a gay 
wedding march. The evening services had closed. 
The last members of the congregation had passed 
out on their way to their homes, ere the young 
couple appeared before the aged minister. Only 
two witnesses were there, one of the vestry men, 


16 


DOUGLAS ; TENDER AND TRUE. 


and the landlady with whom the young girl 
lodged, and who felt a kindly interest in her 
lodger. The good soul felt that her young lady 
was making a good marriage, and was much to be 
envied for her good fortune, her friendship also 
had been won by the soft, lazy tones and charm- 
ing manner of the man. A brighter marriage 
morn, a fairer bride, or handsomer groom were 
never seen. 

Even as the minister pronounced the words 
that made them man and wife, a stray sunbeam 
came through the large glass window and shed 
its bright radiance over her. Stooping, her hus- 
band whispered: “Why so pale, my sweet? Do 
you not know, ‘ Blessed is the bride the sun 
shines on,’ and oh, my wife, my one care shall 
always be your happiness.” 

“I am happy and content,” was all she said, 
yet a world of love was in the dark, earnest eyes. 

“ I have not told you until now, yet love we 
go from here to-night. Do not feel grieved about 
giving up your music class, these little hands 
must rest, and you are pale, my darling ; I begin 
my care of you at once.” 



DOUGLAS; TENDER AND TRUE. 17 , 

They went to a distant city, engaging rooms 
at a hotel. Life was very pleasant to the young 
wife, his business cares did not keep him from 
her side, she did not know the meaning of the 
word neglect. Three months had elapsed; he 
was as much the lover as he was the night he 
wooed, or the day he married her, while her 
life was a dream of him, — the home-coming of his 
foot-steps, the sweetest music to her ears. The 
beauty of her face, the charming sweetness of her 
manner had drawn people to her, and she had made 
some pleasant acquaintances among the ladies. 
Yet, suddenly a dark cloud came across her sky. 
Her husband noticed that she drooped, yet all his 
inquiries were of no avail. 4 4 No, she was quite 
well ; the warm weather gave her the listless, 
weary ’feeling,” was all that she would ever say. 

Things had gone on thus for several weeks. 
She drooped more and more. Now she scarcely 
ever went from her room. She made no com- 
plaint and tried to be cheerful when he was with 
her, yet his heart was full of anxious care. 

Coming through the parlor, one evening, his 
attention was arrested by hearing a couple of 


2 


18 DOUGLAS; TENDER AND TRUE. 

ladies conversing, one had said, “ It’s a shame, 
I will not countenance her, and have not for 
some time.” 

“Perhaps,” said her friend, “there is some 
mistake, she appears too sweet and pure to err 
knowingly.” 

“ No, indeed, there is no mistake. Did not I 
see a picture of him, my cousin, Mrs. Gray, has 
it, and she told me that he had a family, but 
was from home months at a time. You may 
depend on it, my lady is not as innocent as she 
pretends.” 

“ Well, I suppose I must cut her acquaintance 
if you all do.” 

“ Oh ! for the rarity of Christian charity,” 
Even had she been an erring Magdalene, not 
one of these women would have allowed her 
garments to have brushed their own, so much 
higher in the social scale were they above 
the Saviour, who did not feel that he had erred 
when he comforted the repentant Mary. When 
the ladies had passed on, Dacre, with a face 
pale as the face of the dead, went at once to his 
rooms. 


DOUGLAS; TENDER AND TRUE. 


19 


Quick to take note of any trouble of his, she 
said, “ What is the matter, Godfrey?” 

“Nothing much, my darling. I had a bad 
turn just now; I have them sometimes.” 

“And you have never told me,” in a voice 
full of tender concern, as the soft arms were 
clasped about his neck. 

He looked at her lovingly, tenderly, then fold- 
ing his arms about her, he said : 

“ Darling, you are not happy here. Shall we 
try housekeeping for a while?” 

“Can we? I think I never would get tired. 
And Godfrey, darling, I will not care if I never 
see any one except yourself.” 

“ Why did you never tell me that you were 
tired of boarding?” 

“I thought perhaps you might not be able to 
go from here, so I tried to be content.” 

“ Sweet little soul,” he said, “ now you must 
rest until I return. I will take you to a house 
that we can have to ourselves, only promise that 
you will rest until I come back.” 

“ I promise,” fondly stroking his face, “ no 
one comes in now; I will not be disturbed; 


20 


DOUGLAS ; TENDER AND TRUE. 


I will spend my time in longing for you to 
come” 

“ Do you love me so much, sweet ?” 

“ I never knew what love or happiness were 
until I met you. Oh, Godfrey, if anything were 
to happen to you, dear love, it would kill me.” 

“ Cecile, could anything make you love me 
less?” 

“No; I would kiss your dear hand were it to 
strike me. Oh, my love has been proven to 
you.” 

“ My wife, my Cecile, no cruel fate shall ever 
tear you from me, this I Swear.” 

“ It is the safest shelter, my husband’s love.” 

“ That is yours, yours alone and always,” as 
he clasped her to his heart, pressing kiss after 
kiss upon her lips. “ Now you must rest. I 
will darken the room, you must not carry a head- 
ache to our first home.” 

The same night he moved her to a neat little 
house in the eastern suburbs of the city. A 
quiet, pleasant place. The house low-roofed, 
with gables here and there, a small balcony and 
a bay window, and prettily furnished. 


DOUGLAS; TENDER AND TRUE. 21 

“ How did you manage it all so quickly, 
dear?” 

“Oh, I knew what we would need, and money 
did the rest ; now, you must bring both color to 
your face, and smiles to your lips, my darling. 
I will not leave you alone often. You must tell 
me what you want. Your pin-money must go 
only for your ribbons, etc.” 

“You are too good, spending so much money 
only to please a silly little woman.” 

“ Not a word more. It is for the dearest heart 
man ever owned. Oh, love, my dear love, swear 
to me that you will never love me less.” 

“ I can safely swear that,” she said, “and I 
do swear it over and over again.” 

“And that no fate can ever tear you from 
me?” a world of entreaty in his voice. 

“ No, dear, there is no fate strong enough to 
take me from the shelter of these dear arms.” 

What glad happy weeks were those. What a 
bright young mistress had that little home. The 
house half hid from view by the vines of Indian 
creeper, the small, scarlet flowers peeping in at 
doors, at windows, making dashes of crimson 


22 


DOUGLAS; TENDER AND TRUE. 


here and there. Cecile would press them against 
her face. “The dainty cypress blooms,” she 
told her husband, “ would ever be dear to her 
heart,” and that, “the sight of a cypress flower 
would bring sweet memories to her where ever 
she might live.” During those long summer 
days he would sit by her side, and read aloud 
some late novel, or favorite passage from the 
poets. Once he read the story of a man’s love 
and perfidy that made her sad for days and days 
to come. The tale of romance ran thus: The 
hero had been sent on an embassy to some for- 
eign land. While there he became so enamored 
of a lovely Spanish girl, that he forgot honor, 
forgot his wife and babes he had left in his own 
country, sought and won the Spanish girl in mar- 
riage. After her first-born came she learned of 
his deception; she left him, went to the home of 
his wife, and told her all. The baby boy was 
the living proof. Both women turned from him 
with scorn and loathing. 

“ I do not like the story,” she said, “ it makes 
man so base, and women vengeful.” “ Yet, 
Cecile, he let his heart run away with his head.” 


DOUGLAS; TENDER AND TRUE. 


23 


“ It makes no difference, he should never have 
forgotten his honor; if he loved the Spanish girl 
he did not prove it. Ah, no, her situation was a 
terrible one, yet we women are not generally 
vengeful. ” 

“ Don’t, dear, don’t say we women ; you are 
like no other woman ; your’s is the sweetest, 
tenderest heart in all the world. You would 
never have wreaked such injury as that.” 

“ No,” with a happy laugh, “ no one shares 
your love with me, yet dear, honestly speaking, 1 
do not admire her style of vengeance. I would 
never have sought that other woman — the wife. 
I would have left, never to see him more. Some 
time he would have gone to his home and 
family. His love for the foreign girl was no true 
love, and would soon have died.” 

Bending over her sewing she did not see the 
white rift that crossed her husband’s face. Get- 
ting up he went to the nearest window, and 
pushing aside the living curtain of cypress vine, 
stood lost in thought. 


24 


DOUGLAS; TENDER AND TRUE. 


CHAPTER IT. 

ANY times in after years was that sad 
story and the conversation to come 
back in cruel force to them both. Going to him 
she said: ‘‘ Forgive me dear, that I differ with 
you; it is the first time since our marriage.” 

“ Yes, sweet, and I must choose a happier sub- 
ject the next time, your heart is too tender.” 

“ Would you have it harder?” 

“ No, heaven forbid; always remember that it 
was the tender light shining from those dear 
eyes that stole the heart from my bosom, my very 
soul from its Maker.” 

“ Hush, dear, I admit that I stole your heart. 
Yet no hand, not even mine, could ever touch the 
whiteness of your soul ; it belongs to our Maker ; 
yet, I must not preach you a homily, men rarely 
like that.” 

“ Sweet saint, if I had known you earlier I had 
• been a better man.” 

With graceful tact she led the conversation to 



DOUGLAS; TENDER AND TRUE. 


25 


a brighter subject. Later he said, “ If ever I go 
to heaven it will be your hand that leads me 
there,’ ’ kissing the little hand that lay idly in his 
own. 

“ Will you always be my lover?” she fondly 
asked. 

“ Always,” he replied. 

“Hike those sweet attentions. I do not think 
that you need a single graceful courtesy ; you are 
always courteous and refined.” 

“ Bless you for thinking so,” was all that he 
could say. 

Ah ! those halcyon days, too soon were they 
to come to an end; bitter was to be the awaken- 
ing of those two so steeped in bliss. He lived 
for her and her heart was full of loving thoughts 
of him. Weeks passed by, both were so happy 
and content they noted not the flight of time; 
they cared not that they were all alone, and did 
not wish for the society of other people. 

“ Do you never long for other company?” he 
asked. 

“Let your heart answer for me. Are you 
ever lonely? ” 


26 DOUGLAS ; TENDER AND TRUE. 

“Then, dear love, I am answered. The world 
and all in it are a blank to me, my world, my all 
is here in my arms,” kissing with all a lover’s 
fondness the lovely face. Not an hour longer 
than was necessary did he leave her. He seemed 
to grudge the moments spent from her side. And 
she, how tenderly, how lovingly, did she meet 
him on his return. 

“ You must not go without your ‘ button-hole,’ 
and she smiled as she pinned some of the scarlet 
cypress flowers on the lapel of his dark grey 
coat.” 

“ How bright and pretty they are,” he said. 

“ Yes, sometimes I wonder if I will ever cease 
to be fond of the dainty blooms?” 

“ Your fondness tor lovely things will never 
leave you, sweet, nor for me,” he added tenderly, 
then kissing her. “ Good-bye, little girl, I will 
come quickly as I can. I may be away until 
four o’clock, not longer if I can help it.” 

Did something whisper to him of the dark 
cloud so soon to lower and burst with an awful 
force over that little home, for even before he 
reached the gate, he turned back. 


DOUGLAS; TENDER AND TRUE. 


27 


“ My darling, tell me that you love me ; say it 
again and again, that nothing on earth could 
shake your love for me?” With almost piteous 
earnestness he awaited her reply. 

“ How much you love me; no, I could never 
love you less, my love, my own dear love, not 
all the world could shake my faith in you, or in 
your love for me.” 

When finally he tore himself away, a tender 
smile played over her face. “ How happy and 
secure I am in his love. Was woman ever so 
blest before?” she murmured. “How long 
will be the hours until his return. I dare not let 
him know how every second drags until he 
comes, my own dear Godfrey.” 

One half hour had elapsed when a ring at the 
door-bell caused her to start with surprise, it 
was something so uncommon ; perhaps he had 
sent some message. As she opened the door a lady 
stepped in. On being asked into the small par- 
lor, she introduced herself as “Mrs. Gray” — 
a cold, proud-looking woman, dressed in the 
height of fashion. 

“ You are known as Mrs. Dacre?” 


28 


DOUGLAS; TENDER AND TRUE. 


“Certainly, that is my name,” a half smile 
flitting over her face. 

“ I have but a few moments to spare ; I would 
ask if you have ever seen this face?” opening a 
large locket. 

“Yes.” The eyes grew full of tenderness ; 
“ it is my husband’s face.” 

“Your husband, pshaw, what nonsense!” 
with a mocking laugh, adding, “ This is his wife, 
and this other,” again opening the case, “ is his 
only child, his crippled daughter. Here is his 
name.” Yes, there was the name Godfrey Dacre 
graven on the gold. The child’s face was proof 
enough. It was his very own. 

A groan broke from the white lips, a gray pal- 
lor crept over the sweet face, the tender eyes 
grew full of mute agony, a faintness seemed 
coming over her, when a voice as though afar off, 
in cold, cruel tones called her back to life; her 
agony was so intense that even her visitor felt a 
thrill of pity. 

“ If you erred unknowingly I can feel sorrow 
for you ; yet you are leading a shameful life, 
while he is amenable to the law. I have told you 


DOUGLAS; TENDER AND TRUE. 


2<J 


the simple truth, .for he is my sister’s husband. 
She is an invalid ; this, were she to suspect the 
truth, would kill her.” 

“ She shall never know from me,” was all that 
the white lips could gasp, then, “ Only leave me, 
I will go and never see him more.” 

Even in the blinding agony of this awful 
trouble that was crushing the life-blood from 
her heart, she forgot not the courtesy due to 
womanhood, and herself opened the door for 
her visitor to depart. One thought only filled 
her mind, to get away ; oh, if she could only go 
to the furthermost end of the earth, where no 
eyes could gloat upon her sorrow, and her shame. 
Mechanically she put a few articles of clothing in 
a small satchel, then getting a dark ulster, one 
that he had never seen her wear, a small close 
bonnet and thick veil, she arrayed herself in 
these; then, as mechanically, she seated herself 
at the little desk, his present to her, and wrote a 
few hurried lines, enclosing therein the heavy 
band of gold it had been her pride to wear. 
This she placed upon the table, and a moment 
later went from the door. A spray of cypress 


30 


DOUGLAS; TENDER AND TRUE. 


brushed across her lips as though in a mute and 
sad farewell; for an instant her gaze drank in the 
beauty of the scene, then a shudder went through 
her frame; never in after years would she see the 
small crimson flower without a sickening sensa- 
tion creeping over her. Hastily brushing the 
blooms from her way she passed out of the door- 
way, and through the blinding sun turned her 
footsteps toward the station. She must get 
away at once ; she felt a death-like lethargy com- 
ing over her ; she must be far-away, for soon her 
strength would fail. A crowd of ladies were at 
the depot; she dimly noticed the fact, and the 
thought came to her that she among so many 
would not be easily traced. All this passed 
through her mind, as a ticket was handed to her. 
The next station reached, she went into the ticket 
office. The clerk noticed the pale face and sad, 
weary air. A thrill of pity filled his boyish heart. 

“ Can I be of assistance to you in any way?” 
he said. 

She thought for a moment ; “ I cannot go very 
fat*; can you tell me of a quiet boarding house 
at the next station?” 


DOUGLAS; TENDER AND TRUE. 


31 


“ Yes,” hastily penciling a few lines and hand- 
ing to her, “ I will telegraph to a friend of mine ; 
he will meet you and will see that you reach the 
address. I am glad that I happened to be here,” 
he said, “as my friend will resume his office in 
an hour, and I at once leave for my home in 
another State.” 

“ I cannot find words to thank you,” she said. 

“ Do not think about that,” he replied, as 
he helped her in the railway carriage. “ Dor- 
rance will meet you^and you can trust him.” 

Long would the sweet face and tender voice 
haunt him. 

Such a weary journey as was the next few 
miles. Her eyes were burning, and her head 
ached; a feeling of despair was on her, yet she 
felt a sense of relief as the train pulled into the 
station. Immediately a young man, a mere boy 
but for the straggling dark mustache on the short 
upper lip, came into the car and walked quickly 
forward, and came directly to her seat. “ Mrs. 
Vincent,” as he paused beside her. She bowed. 

“ Let me introduce myself as Dorrance Vane; 
I am at your service; let me have your valise?” 


32 


DOUGLAS; TENDER AND TRUE. 


and offering his arm, “ I have a buggy in wait- 
ing, and will at once take you to a quiet place, to 
my foster mother’s,” he added with a glad, happy 
laugh, “the best, dearest little soul; you will 
have rest and quiet there.” The lively, boyish 
voice soothed her; he was so unobtrusive in his 
kindness, that her heart went out to him as 
though he were her brother ; yet the mental 
strain had been too great ; even as they rqjiched 
the little house on the outskirts of the village 
she fainted away. Taking ^he light form in his 
stout young arms, he carried her to the house, 
was met at the door by a short, stout woman. 

“ Dorrance, dear, you did not tell me that the 
poor child was sick.” 

“ It is a faint, she has over-exerted herself, I 
dare say,” said the young man. He carried her 
into a neat room and laying her on a bed, they 
bathed the lovely face, yet it was moments be- 
fore the death-like stupor passed away, or the 
dark eyes unclosed, such a look of agony in the 
sweet eyes; then a low cry of bitter sorrow, a cry 
that those who heard never forgot, “ So deso- 
late and alone,” she murmured. 


DOUGLAS ; TENDER AND TRUE. 


33 


44 Not desolate, poor child/’ said a woman’s 
voice, and motherly arms were folded around her. 
“ Not alone while Dorrance and I are alive,” as 
she stroked the glossy hair. Then in the same 
low, kind voice : 4 4 You must rest. Draw in those 
shutters, will you Dorrance? Come, sit here, 
while I bring the child a cup of tea.” 

44 You look kind and true,” said the girl. 
44 You would not break a woman’s heart, or ruin 
a woman’s life.” 

C <I would sooner avenge a woman’s wrong,” 
he said. 

44 The Spanish girl did that, yet oh, 4 to be 
wroth with one we love doth work like madness 
on the brain.’ ” 

44 Will you drink this cup of tea and try to eat 
a slice of toast?” 

44 Please, I feel as if anything would choke 
me now.” 

44 Only drink some of the tea. I myself made 
it for you.” 

“Heaven bless you!” Taking the cup she 
drank the refreshing beverage. Striving to sit 
up, a dizziness came over her. 44 Save me, God- 


3 


34 


DOUGLAS; TENDER AND TRUE. 


frey,” escaped the white lips, as she fell back in 
a swoon. For weeks she lay ill with brain fever, 
and most of the time unconscious ; while delirious 
her raving told much of woman’s trust and love 
and of man’s base duplicity. “ Oh ! love. Is it 
a sin for me to wish to look upon your dear face 
again?” And she would clasp the frail white 
hands over the aching eyes. All that medical 
skill could accomplish had been done, yet the 
physician despaired of her life. 

‘ 4 There is some sorrow,” he said, “ over which 
medicine has no control. If she is saved it will 
be through your loving kindness. I cannot im- 
agine what fiend could harm her, for if ever a 
pure soul looked from a person’s eyes, her soul 
is stainless.” 

“ I feel as if she had been sinned against. I 
will never desert her, if she is spared ; she fills the 
place in my heart and home made vacant by the 
death of my little daughter.” 

Very ill. More than once the weary feet were 
turned toward the Valley of Shadows, and she 
seemed entering the confines of another world, 
yet tender nursing won the day, and she was 
saved. 


DOUGLAS; TENDER AND TRUE. 


35 


CHAPTER III. 

S HE evening of her flight her husband turned 
with a glad heart toward his home. “ She 
is waiting and watching for me, my sweet.” 
Passing a florist’s he bought a bunch of snow- 
drops and lily of the valley. “ Dear one, she 
loves all things pure and sweet; not fairer than 
my dear love’s face are these most perfect flow- 
ers, yet, she will always love best our. wee home 
flower,” glancing lovingly at the scarlet flower 
drooping against his coat. The purchase of 
some late magazines detained him scarce a mo- 
ment. “How her eyes sparkle at the sight of 
books and flowers ; these are my only rivals in my 
dear one’s heart. She will be there on the bal- 
cony, her sweet face peeping through the vines 
to welcome me.” Yet she was not there. A 
still quiet was over the place that was op- 
pressive. “Oh! my darling is sick;” flowers 
and books were dropped, the former to 
wither where they fell, the latter to remain 


36 


DOUGLAS; TENDER AND TRUE. 


with uncut leaves, until some careless hand 
unrolled them. He hastened into the dainty bed- 
room ; no, she was not there. Catching sight of 
the note, with a pang at his heart-strings, he tore 
it open, the circlet of gold falling at his feet. 
The lines he read ran thus: “ This* evening I 
have heard all . I suppose that I ought to shower 
words of abuse and contempt upon you, yet such 
words come not from a bleeding heart ; mine is 
broken. I pray that God may forgive you for 
this most grievous wrong. I say good-bye for- 
evermore. You can return to your family, to 
your home. I have nowhere to lay my head. 
If death came at one’s wish, then this day the 
sun would shine upon my grave. Not the rain, 
for the rain is for the blessed dead. God gave 
my life. He alone can take it. My ruined life, 
rny poor broken heart. Do not seek for you will 
never find me. My fault is in having loved, not 
wisely, but too well. For the last time I call you 
thus: Godfrey, my love, good-bye, good-bye.” 
A cry of agony broke from his lips; stooping 
he picked up the ring, and putting it in 
the note, put both in his pocket. Then, fall- 


DOUGLAS; TENDER AND TRUE. 


37 


ing face-downward across the bed, great sobs 
shook his frame. “ Oh ! God, I deserve punish- 
ment, yet she is innocent, my one sweet love. 
I risked soul, honor all for her. I won and lost.” 
He took no note of time as he lay there. All 
through that long night he battled with despair. 
As the cold gray light of dawn struggled through 
the open windows, he hid his eyes as though the 
sight were painful. “ Oh ! If I can only find her, 
my innocent love, so tender to be alone. My 
darling, why have you left me?” Getting up he 
bathed his face. “ Perhaps, I can find her. She 
was all unused to traveling ; oh, if I ever see her 
I will hold her in spite of all the world.” The 
ticket agent could give him no information. In 
every instance his quest was vain. Although he 
sought far and wide he could find no clue. 

The little house was closed ; rent ahead was 
paid; no one must touch her things, no one. The 
withered cypress flower was tenderly taken from 
his coat, and placed in his pocket-book. A knot 
of blue ribbon from her dark hair, a small 
scented glove, these were his treasures; yes, 
and one other, her picture painted on ivory, 


38 


DOUGLAS; TENDER AND TRUE. 


a surprise she had given him on his birthday, 
and he often looked and kissed again and again 
the cold ivory. “ Oh, my love, I love you so,” 
was all that he ever said. Weeks merged into 
months ; still the same weary never-ending search ; 
now despair settled upon him. Had it not have 
been for a splendid constitution, he would have 
given up. He dared not let sickness overtake 
him ; he must find her; he could not live without 
her ; while she lay battling for life, he was vain- 
ly whirled from town to town, from one place to 
another, and always with the same result. 

Heart-sick with disappointment, weary with his 
fruitless search, he had stopped at a large railroad 
town. There also his quest was in vain. Lone- 
ly and depressed he had returned to his hotel ; 
seated in the piazza he was dimly conscious that 
a group of gayly dressed ladies, with their es- 
corts, passed him on their way out to some enter- 
tainment. He noted not the lapse of time. Was 
sitting there, hours later, when they returned. 
The gay crowd passed on. A lady paused and 
going to him, said in a low voice : “ Godfrey, I 
knew not that you were here. How are you?” 


DOUGLAS; TENDER AND TRUE. 


39 


“Quite well, Adele, and how are you?” of- 
fering her a chair as he spoke. 

“When have you heard from home?” At 
her words a rift of anguish crossed his face; he 
was thinking of another home. 

“Not lately,” he replied, “I am always on 
the move.” 

“ Godfrey, I know that your business is a 
large one, and keeps your time employed, yet 
you ought to see Muriel. The child cannot 
live long, they say,” the hard, cold voice grew 
soft. “ Such a sweet little girl, so gentle, so 
good and patient; to see you would be a new 
lease of life for her, and the little thing wants 
you. Last w r eek a letter came from Maud; in- 
closed was one from the child to you, thinking, 
my sister writes, that I might meet you in my 
travels. Maud, too, is in wretched health, yet 
never complains. Let me go and bring Muriel’s 
letter.” 

Only a few moments elapsed before she 
brought a dainty missive. 

“ I am going to my room now. Will I see you 
to-morrow.” 


40 


DOUGLAS; TENDER AND TRUE. 


“ I will be off by the earliest train.' * 

“Then good-bye, and good-night.” She felt 
that she could not offer him her hand, while he 
did not even notice the omission, and if he had 
would not have cared. 

A few days later he sprang from the cars at a 
station in the southern portion of another State ; 
travel-stained and weary though he was, he 
stopped not to rest, but at once turned his steps 
to a lovely house, a very short distance from the 
station. The lawn was well kept, a pretty flower 
garden, and fanciful summer houses here and 
there told of taste and wealth ; yet an air of 
silence and gloom reigned over the place, which 
the glare of the sunlight, the sweet fragrance of 
the flowers, could not dispel. 

As he entered the wide hall, a tall, fair, gentle- 
looking woman, coming from a side room, met 
him. “Ah! Godfrey, for the child’s sake, 
I am glad that you have come. She calls 
for you incessantly. Let me prepare her for 
your coming,” as she passed into another 
room. 

Not a hand-clasp had these two, no warm 


DOUGLAS; TENDER AND TRUE. 


41 


greeting for her, no loving words of welcome for 
him from that fair, gentle woman. 

“ My darling, some one has come to see you !” 

“ Oh, mama, Heaven bless you ! I know it is 
papa,” and for the moment forgetful of all else, 
she raised herself, and the next instant, with a 
cry of pain, sank back upon the lounge. Before 
the cry had passed the childish lips, the man was 
in the room, and on his knees beside that little 
figure, his lips pressed again and again to the 
pale, beautiful face. 

“ My little Muriel, your papa is here.” 

“ You will stay with me, father. I won’t mind 
the pain, if you will not leave me any more?” 

“ I will not leave you again,” he said, looking 
at the white face, even now so full of pain, 
caused by the exertion of the moment before. 
Taking in his own the tiny hand, he lost all con- 
trol of himself, and great sobs burst from his 
bosom. 

“ Don’t cry, dear father, it hurts me. I don’t 
want to die now that you have come. You will 
save me, papa, oh, I know you will.” A little 
later, “ You will lift me in your arms. Mama 


42 


DOUGLAS ; TENDER AND TRUE. 


is too weak, and the others hurt me, and I am 
so tired ; you never did hurt me, father.” 

He lifted the small emaciated form, crippled 
from a fall during her infancy, holding her in his 
strong arms, and walked about the house. 

“ I would like to see the flowers, papa.” He 
carried her out on the lawn, then to the flower 
garden, and walked up and down the pleasant 
flower-bordered walks. 

“ Are you rested now, my little Muriel?” 
“ Yes, papa, we will go in. I will sleep sweetly 
to-night. You will not leave me, father?” 

“ No, my baby.” 

That night and for many nights he sat near the 
couch, giving medicine or lifting her to an 
easy posture, sometimes for hours holding the 
slight form in his arms. The mother who had 
kept up under all that weary watching gave way, 
and was too weak and ill to leave her bed. With 
the tenderness of a woman, he hovered between 
those sick beds (for the child had been moved 
to the mother’s room), first waiting on one, then 
on the other, he never seemed to grow weary. 


DOUGLAS; TENDER AND TRUE. 


43 


He had again taken up the burthen of life and 
would not give way beneath the load. Once the 
sick woman said to him, 6 ‘ Godfrey, I never knew 
until now how good a man you are. I wish you 
to forgive me for all those years of coldness, and, 
oh, we did each other a cruel wrong; yet, I might 
have made your life more pleasant. Say, please, 
that you forgive me? ” 

“ I, too, have been in fault,’ ’ he said, “and it is 
I who should kneel at your feet and ask your 
pardon. I am not as good a man as you deem 
me.” Then in a low, broken voice, he told her 
of some things connected with those past few 
months. “ Say, now, that you can pity and for- 
give? ” he cried. 

“ Poor Godfrey,” she said, her hand resting 
on the bowed head. “ You have had a hard life. 
Mine will soon be over. I pray, I trust that 
there is brightness in the days to come, for you; 
If you think that you have ever wronged me in 
word or thought, most freely do I forgive you ; 
yet, never from your lips has a hard word ever 
come to me ; it is 1 who humbly asks forgiveness. 
Oh, I wrecked your life, it was a grievous wrong 


44 DOUGLAS ; TENDER AND TRUE. 

I did you. It never seemed so grievous ’until 
now. The dying see all things clear, and this 
looms up before me so awfully distinct. You 
knew that I had no heart to give and yet 
you placed your happiness in my keeping. And, 
Godfrey, I gave you studied neglect and coldness. 
It was all so cruel and so wrong,” she murmured. 
For a few moments her strength seemed spent, 
her eyes closed, her hand resting on the bowed 
head. 

“ Make me a promise, Godfrey, you will never 
leave our baby, our poor little Muriel. ” 

“ Never! so help me heaven !” 

“ God bless and reward you for that sweet, 
and sacred promise.” 

The days passed on. The little child grew 
stouter, the father's coming was a more potent 
charm than any medicine, yet, the mother, 
always delicate, grew weaker day by day. 
Gentle and uncomplaining she faded away. 
Those who watched her could see the shadow 
of death in the beautiful eyes. 

The evening was lovely. Outside the sun 
shone brightly; the flowers bloomed sweetly; 


DOUGLAS ; TENDER AND TRUE. 


45 


bird music filled the air; yet in that house no one 
noticed the soft beauty of the day — in one room 
reigned a stillness as of death, and indeed death 
hovered very near. 

“ Godfrey, bring my little Muriel to me.” 

He brought the child and put her beside the 
mother ; the thin weak arms were clasped about 
the little one. 

“Muriel, you will never forget Mama. I 
know this, my darling. Although I go down into 
the dark and silent grave, there will be a place 
kept green in your heart for me. I have talked 
to you as we never talk to children, as we only 
talk to our equals in intellect; yet your mind has 
always understood and grasped my meaning. 
My child, do not grieve for me when I am gone. 
Though silent and cold the grave, oh, I do not 
dread it. It will be so sweet to rest, and, 
little one, I am so weary : see, my arms are tired; 
they cannot longer hold you,” as the arms fell 
from the child’s neck. The man, tears in his 
dark blue eyes, tenderly lifted the frail arms 
and with a gentle clasp held them around the 
child. 


46 


DOUGLAS; TENDER AND TRUE. 


“ You are so good, Godfrey — I want her in 
my arms close to my heart until the last.” The 
pretty golden curls of the little girl brushed her 
brow. The sweet young lips were on her own. 
“ Mama, darling mama? You will not leave your 
Muriel; oh, speak to me, you cannot leave me. 
Papa, help me ; oh, do not let her die !” while sobs 
choked her utterance and shook the little frame. 

The dark eyes unclosed. “ My Muriel, promise 
mama not to grieve; and try to be a comfort to 
your father, as you have ever been to me.” 

“ I cannot promise that I will not grieve; oh, 
how can I give you up, my own dear mama? I 
will try to be a comfort to papa, yet, oh, mama ! 
mama!” as she kissed the cold lips. 

“ Take her, Godfrey ;” he lifted the child, who 
had fainted, and put her in the arms of the old 
negress, who stood sobbing by the bed. 

“ Good-bye, Mammy, be good to the baby, for 
my poor sake.” 

As the old servant turned away with the un- 
conscious child, the dying woman turned her 
gaze to the man, who, grief-stricken, knelt beside 
the bed. 


DOUGLAS; TENDER AND TRUE. 


47 


“You are sorry for me, poor Godfrey,” she 
said. 

“ Sorry ! oh, Maud. I would give my life to 
save you.” 

“ I believe you, yet I am going now. Your 
promise to care for our little girl is sweet and 
makes death easier to bear. It is nothing painful 
that I feel. Azrael, the beautiful Angel, awaits 
me ; he has kissed my brow ; I am not afraid, and 
oh, Godfrey, listen dear, it is such sweet, sad 
music. Help me Godfrey. I am falling away 
from every where.” As he raised her in his 
arms the white lips murmered: “ God bless you, 
Godfrey, and my Muriel.” The words so low, 
yet he heard, and one thin arm crept around his 
neck; he kissed her lips ; looking into his eyes, 
a smile went over her face, her head drooped low 
upon his bosom, and she walked in Paradise with 
God. Gently he laid her down. Tenderly he 
closed the beautiful eyes. He kissed the pale, 
still face ; then kneeling there, he prayed as 
never in all his life had he prayed until then. 

A touch on his arm. “Master, the little one 
is crying so, she will be sick ; go to her. I will 


48 DOUGLAS; TENDER AND TRUE. 

attend to everything — and, Mass Godfrey, 
don’t let the child give way or she will be ill.” 

“ Thanks mammy, you are always kind.” 

He quieted the child, yet her first question: 
“Oh! papa. Has mama fainted? Take me to 
her. I want her to kiss me; I must see her.” 

How could he tell her? 

“My little daughter, you have only me to 
love you now.” 

The mother’s death was a sad shock to the 
nervous system of the child. For weeks she lay 
at death’s door; the untiring energy of the old 
family physician, the faithful nursing of the 
black mammy, and the father’s watchful love 
and care saved the life of which they had almost 
despaired. Slowly, yet surely she recovered 
as the winter passed on, and the spring days 
came; a roundness came to the dainty limbs, a 
rosy hue to the little face. As warm weather 
approached her strength returned, she became 
less sad and sought in many ways to be a com- 
fort to her father. She often drew him from 
the sad thoughts that filled his heart. 

Once she said to him: “ Papa, I seem to see 


DOUGLAS; TENDER AND TRUE. 49 

mama’s smile, to hear her sweet voice ; every- 
where the waving limbs, the rustling leaves, the 
very breeze seem to whisper ‘ Muriel ’ in ma- 
ma’s clear voice. When I am among the flow- 
ers, her eyes look at me from all those buds and 
blossoms, and the sunshine brings her smile, for 
ah, papa, her smile was the sunlight of my life. 
And so I see her, hear her, know that she is with 
me everywhere.” The child was full of all 
such sweet, sad fancies. He never tried to 
check them. How could he when her day- 
dreams of that dead mother were so beautiful, 
and so pathetically told ? 

In turn he told her of his boyhood, his home, 
his having been an only child. 

“Like me, papa, yet not like me either, for I 
am a poor cripple.” 

“ Hush, child, remember that you are father’s 
little snow-drop, and that he loves you more ten 
derly than if you were a great, rosy, romping 
girl. Always remember that.” 

“ Then, I do not mind, father, and I will never 
wish to be stout and rosy again.” 


4 


50 


DOUGLAS; TENDER AND TRUE. 


“ That is my own little daughter. What would 
I do without you? ” 

His troubled spirit and sore heart found com- 
fort in the quaint converse and caressing ways ot 
the little one, and he was thankful that God had 
spared her to him. 

Not one word had he heard of the girl who had 
been so dear to him. Many were the tears shed 
over the small bit of ivory that was ever next 
his heart, and hot, passionate kisses were oft 
times pressed on that dainty glove of violet kid. 
Oh ! could he but undo that bitter wrong ! Yet, 
the same wild love filled his heart. The same 
mad longing for her was ever with him. 
The child made friends with every one, and had 
two most devoted slaves, her father and the old 
black mammy. The quiet life on the old planta- 
tion suited the child. Mr. Dacre had given up 
the agencies that he had held, and remained 
quietly at home, seldom going to the railroad 
station near them ; yet during the Spring of 1861 
the peaceful calm of their life was to be broken. 

Abraham Lincoln had been elected President ; 
his role was to free the Southern slaves ; this 


DOUGLAS \ TENDER AND TRUE. 


51 


was a cause neither just nor right. The Palmetto 
State was the first to leave the Union ; other States 
quickly followed her bold example, until thirteen 
Stars were to be placed with the Bars on the 
Southern banner. Mr. Jefferson Davis was by 
the voice of the people of these States chosen as 
President — the young nation was to be baptized 
with blood on more than one battle-field as the 
Southern Confederacy. 

Mr. Lincoln’s call for a large body of troops 
alarmed and enraged the Southern people. He 
had no right to wage war against any of the seced- 
ing States, and they began to prepare to act upon 
the defensive. They would protect their rights. 

Richmond, Va., finally became the capital 
of the Southern States. When Mr. Davis made 
a call for troops, men from every State In both 
Cis- and Trans-Mississippi departments hastened 
to Virginia, as that State promised to become the 
scene of action. 

A regiment was being raised in , and an 

officer’s commission was offered to Mr. Dacre. 
“No,” he had said, “ 1 will go as one of the 
men, and will work my way up.” He enlisted 


52 


DOUGLAS; TENDER AND TRUE. 


as a private. It mattered little to him under 
what title he fought, and even as he had said, he 
“ might win his spurs out yonder.” It was a 
sad parting with his little daughter. He left her 
m charge of the good old nurse. The rector of 
the village church had promised to see her often. 
The old man had no family, therefore would be 
able to devote much of his spare time to the little 
girl, then the family physician, with whom she 
had always been a favorite, would also be her 
friend. This in a manner satisfied the father's 
heart ; yet, when the hour of parting came it was 
indeed a sad farewell. 

“ Papa,” and the little arms were clasped 
about his neck, “You will take great care of 
yourself for my sake.” 

“ Yes, my darling, and you must write to 
father every week. You will see me coming 
home very soon, I think,” then turning to the 
old servant: “I leave her in your care, and 
mammy, you must take good care of my pet.” 

“Yes, Mars Godfrey, ole mammy will take 
care of her chile. Don’t you fret, honey. I 
will watch and tend my baby.” 


DOUGLAS ; TENDER AND TRUE. 


53 


Clasping for a moment the faithful servant’s 
hand — he again embraced his- little girl ; he 
kissed the pretty face, kissed brow, eyes and 
lips. “ Good-bye, my baby, until I come again.” 
Then hastily left the room. He could not see 
those childish tears and knew that she would be 
comforted on the bosom of that kind old nurse. 

The march was tedious, the men were foot- 
sore and weary when they reached Virginia, yet 
now for them was a time of rest. With tents 
pitched here and there on the banks of the river, 
they lived in all the lazy abandonment of camp 
life. Longing for an engagement in which they 
could play a part ; not long would they have to 
wait, for the hour of battle was near at hand. 



54 


DOUGLAS ; TENDER AND TRUE 


CHAPTER IV. 

S OW we go back to that fair girl, who in 
a stranger’s house, yet tended by kindly 
hands, lay doing battle with death for the mastery 
of life; she came out of the hard-fought struggle 
■victorious, and grew better by degrees; slowly 
strength returned to the wasted form, a faint 
color to the pale, thin face. Mrs. Boyce minis- 
tered to her wants with a gentle hand, while 
Dorrance filled the place of a younger brother. 
Their kindness won a warm place in her heart, 
yet, oh, the bitterness of death was her’s when 
she thought of that dear, dead love. Would 
she never again in all the years to come see his 
face ? Could she forget him ? 

She sought to find relief from the thought in 
work, and would assist the kind friend in all her 
household duties. 

“You are too weak, child, you are not stout 
enough to do housework.” 


DOUGLAS; TENDER AND TRUE. 


55 


“ Please let me help you? I will not over-task 
my strength. I feel better when I am busy.” 

She would dust and arrange furniture in the 
small sitting-room, and help either in dining-room 
or kitchen, until Mrs. Boyce would kindly force 
her to a seat, or a rest on the lounge, while Dor- 
rance would bring her late papers or try to inter- 
est her in some boyish gossip about affairs in the 
village. 

Cecile had felt secure, yet she was greatly 
startled on one occasion. Dorrance returning 
from a neighboring town (where he had been 
sent to transact business for the firm by which he 
was employed), had said to his mother : 

“ To-day 1 met Mr. Dacre. He is in bad health, 
and appears in great trouble. Was in so much 
haste that I had only a moment in which to ask 
about Muriel ; he has not seen her in many 
months. 

“I do not see how you can have the patience 
to talk to that man. He is a brute to stay away 
from that little child, and a man of honor would 
never have treated a woman as he has treated his 
wife.” 


56 


DOUGLAS ; TENDER AND TRUE. 


“ I admit that he is wrong; yet, mother, when 
I was in Mississippi going to school, he was very 
kind to me; especially so, when I was sick and 
you were unable to come to me. He was as 
tender as a woman ; had me moved to his house ; 
they nursed and cared for me. Mrs. Dacre was 
an angel, and that little girl is the sweetest child 
I ever knew.” 

Cecile’sface grew white as she listened, her 
head bent lower over her work. It was by a 
great effort that she conquered the feeling of 
faintness that she felt was coming over her. 
Must she fly from this new home? Must she 
leave these kind friends? O! fate was hard, 
indeed. 

His next words comforted her. “ Mr. Dacre 
told me that he was going away; I invited him 
here; he said no, that his way lay in a far dif- 
ferent direction.” 

Cecile was glad that her agitation was un- 
noticed. Dorrance was kind to her in many ways. 
He often brought books and flowers, yet, her 
fondness for books was a thing of the past, and 
they would lay on the table with uncut leaves ; 


DOUGLAS; TENDER AND TRUE. 


57 


for flowers too her love seemed dead, for the 
lovely blooms would wither and die, unnoticed 
and uncared for. 

She was as one of the family. Mrs. Boyce 
had said to her : 

“ You must think of this as your home, I feel 
that you were sent as a comfort to me, for my 
heart has never felt so rested or so full of peace 
since my baby died. Dorrance needs a sister as 
much as I need a daughter, so child, this is your 
home ; we want you to rest and try to be con- 
tent/ ’ 

“ Heaven bless you for your kindness. I can 
find no words to do so. Do you know I had not 
where to go and I can never tell you from what I 
was fleeing. I can never tell my dreadful secret, 
never. I was so happy, and in one short hour 
my beautiful dream was ended, my happiness 
was dead. If love and gratitude can half repay 
your kind charity, then indeed, I can repay the 
debt in full.” 

“I will be repaid with interest, child, when I 
see your strength returning, and know you to be 
content.” 


58 


DOUGLAS; TENDER AND TRUE. 


The winter wind gave her strength, and when 
the spring time came she employed her time 
in doing fine needle-work, dainty pieces of lace- 
like embroidery, for which she found ready sale, 
and fair prices. Mrs. Boyce no longer objected 
to her seeking employment. She saw that the 
girl was better satisfied, and Cecile was glad to 
be able, in a measure, to earn her own living ; 
then too she could help her friends in different 
ways. Many a dainty ornament or pretty knick- 
nack found its way to grace the little parlor, 
while the sewing and mending she undertook as 
her especial work. 

Now the Civil War between the States was like- 
ly to break out at any moment, and it was the sole 
topic of conversation. Ladies congregated at each 
other’s houses to talk it over. They knew not 
how soon their dear ones might be called from 
their peaceful homes; while on the streets ex- 
citement reigned supreme. Men “ button-holed ” 
each other as they talked in eager tones, of what 
they expected would soon take place — a passage 
at arms between the North and South. Finally 
the tocsin of war sounded, calling men to arms. 


DOUGLAS ; TENDER AND TRUE. 


59 


Troops from other States went hastening to the 
seat of war. The Lone Star State was not back- 
ward in answering that appeal. She would fur- 
nish a quota of men, and three regiments to serve 
as infantry were quickly raised. Dorrance Yane 
was one of the first to enlist. As they were to 
leave at a moment’s notice, every one went to work 
to get the soldiers ready. Cecile worked with a 
will. Knapsack, haversack, over-shirts, every 
thing for a soldier’s outfit was in readiness for 

Dorrance. 

% 

How they regretted to see him go. He was 
the life of the place. His boyish voice, his gay 
laugh, the music that helped to gladden the life 
of those two women. They would miss the 
handsome face, the gallant youthful form. Mrs. 
Boyce kept up bravely until the parting hour 
came, then her grief knew no bounds. 

“Don’t cry, mother,” his arms around her, 
“ I will come back all right ; never fear for me; 
the hardship of camp life will make a big stout 
fellow of me, and some day I will return to 
care for the little mother who has been so good 
to me. Do not with tears, but with a smile, 


60 


DOUGLAS; TENDER AND TlfUE. 


give your boy God-speed,” and he fondly 
kissed the tear-dimmed eyes. 

Then kissing Cecile’s hand, “ You are the only 
sister I have ever known. Try to comfort poor 
mother. Good-bye, and heaven bless you.” 

“ Dorrance, you have been a dear, kind brother 
to me. Let me feel that I am sending a brother 
to do battle for my native State?” drawing his 
face close to her own, she kissed him. “ Now, 
dear boy, God bless and keep you.” 

The excitement had been too much for her 
frail strength and again she lingered on a bed 
of sickness. Once more the dark shadow hov- 
ered over her and did battle for her life, yet 
again she was victorious. A tiny, delicate babe 
was born, a boy of wondrous beauty, dark eyes, 
and such a wealth of golden hair, that lay in 
curls all over the pretty head. Very ill was the 
poor young mother. She fought death for her 
baby’s sake. She owed her life to the skill of 
the young physician, Doctor Oran, a new-comer 
to the village. He claimed to be of Spanish de- 
scent, — his swarthy face, dark eyes and hair gave 
truth to the statement. He did not leave his 


DOUGLAS ; TENDER AND TRUE. 


61 


patient for an hour ; day and night he was near 
her, he never seemed to grow weary — he would 
trust no hired nurse ; with the help of Mrs. Boyce 
he fought the grim angel, and conquered. 

“ Do not let me die,” was the piteous cry, as 
she looked with dry, tearless eyes into the kind 
face of Mrs. Boyce. 

“ Don’t fret so, child, you are doing well, yet 
you must not be excited.” 

Often the voice shrill with agony would cry 
out, “Oh! Doctor, save me for my baby’s 
sake, I must not leave my baby.” He would 
soothe her kindly, tenderly as a woman. 

Once during the doctor’s absence, she took 
the kind hand of the friend who never left her 
and laying her thin left hand therein, she said in 
a heart-broken way. “You were kind enough 
to take me on trust, yet, oh, I have not deceived 
you. Upon my finger there presses no wedding 
ring, yet my babe is born ; oh ! if I could only 
tell you all, you would see that I am innocent, 
my soul white as snow.” Then the weak, right 
hand went over the eyes, that had in them a look 
of a wounded dove, and tears, the first in weeks, 


62 


DOUGLAS; TENDER AND TRUE. 


came to relieve the weary brain — such a fit of 
weeping that Mrs. Boyce became alarmed; tak- 
ing the child, she put him in the sad young 
mother’s arms. 

“There, dear child, stop crying, now remem- 
ber that you are my daughter, and that no hard 
or unkind thoughts can ever come in my heart 
toward you. We love and trust you, child, and 
something tells me that your words are true, and 
that your soul is white as snow, and no shame 
can ever touch your little son. What a bonnie 
boy he is !” 

Cecile tried to forget her grief, and to live 
only for the. sake of the little one. They — 
those two women, — vied with each other in pet- 
ting him. His mother called him Godfrey ; and 
the name suited well the wee bairn. 


DOUGLAS; TENDER AND TRUE. 


63 


CHAPTER V. 

§ N the old plantation, life went on in a dull, 
listless way, for the crippled child. The 
dearest companion, her old black mammy, her 
only playmate, the large New Foundland, 
“ Nero.” To the dog she was tenderly attached, 
and he was never very far from the side of his little 
mistress. As the year went slowly by, and 
another summer time came on, the child drooped 
like a summer flower, the delicate tint left the 
sweet face, while her complexion became as white 
as the leaf of a lily. 

“Oh! mammy,” she would sometimes say, 
“ When will this cruel war be over? ” 

“ No telling, honey, not until one side or the 
other wins.” 

“It is so cruel, this killing one another, and 
God says we must not commit murder ; and that 
we must love our enemies, is what His word tries 
to teach us, and yet, oh, mammy, I grow heart 
sick when I think it over.” 


64 


DOUGLAS; TENDER AND TRUE. 


The old nurse was often unable to answer the 
child’s questions. She knew not the right or the 
wrong of the war. Born and raised as a favorite 
servant, having held in her arms her present 
master, who as a boy and a man loved and re- 
spected her, and to whose child she was also 
mammy, she knew no law save his, no religion 
save her master’s own. He was more a friend 
than master to the old servant, and this she knew 
full well, and was as loyal to his child as to him- 
self. 

Sorely grieved was the old soul when the Fed- 
eral Army invaded Mississippi. Try as she 
would, she failed to hide her trouble. 

“ What is the matter, mammy? ” 

“ Nothing, child, mammy has been hunting the 
prettiest flowers for her baby.” 

“ I thank you, yet, dear old nurse, something 
worries you ; now, tell me,” drawing the old 
black face near her own, as one small hand 
caressed the wrinkled face, “ mammy, tell your 
baby. Are the Yankees here? ” 

The negress gave a start. “ Laws sake! who 
told the child?” she gasped. 


DOUGLAS; TENDER AND TRUE. 65 

“ I saw it in one of the papers.’ ’ 

“ And ain’t you scared, honey? ” 

“ No, mammy, I feel that they will never hurt 
us, and I am not afraid, and if they do come here 
you won’t be cross and say ugly words to them? 
It would do no good, and, you see, they think 
that they are right, and they are wrong, we 
know ; yet, I think they will not hurt us.” 

“ God bless the chile! I will do just as you 
say, little Miss.” So even the next day, as a 
squad of Yankee infantry filed into the yard, the 
old negress, true to her promise, held the peace. 
The other negroes had scampered pell-mell to 
the adjacent fields, or to the river bottom, there 
to remain in hiding while the foemen were in the 
State. 

It was a bright summer day ; the air was heavy 
with the perfume of the lovely flowers that graced 
the garden. The drowsy hum of .the bees, the 
whir, whir of the tiny wings of the many hued 
humming-birds as they flitted here and there 
amons: the vines and over the bushes, seemed as 
sweetest music to the fragile child, who in her 


5 


66 


DOUGLAS; TENDER AND TRUE. 


wicker chair sat on the lawn and beneath the 
shade of a tall orange tree. 

“ I cannot study to-day. I cannot,” she mur- 
mured, as the book fell from her hand. “My 
teacher will not be angry, my eyes ache, they 
seem dim. I wept so last night for dear papa.” 
The small hands clasped themselves and lay idly 
oh her lap, the head with its wealth of golden 
curly hair drooped against the back of the chair, 
the pale face making a perfect cameo as it rested 
on the crimson velvet cushion at her head. A 
most exquisite picture, so thought a young Union 
soldier who had entered the wide gateway. For 
one moment his dark eyes feasted on the lovely 
face, then turning he made a quick gesture of 
silence to a squad of men who were filing up the 
walk. 

He led them to the back portion of the yard. 
“ Pitch your tents here,” he said. “ We will 
not disturb the house, our Colonel will soon be 
here, and men, be as quiet and orderly as you 
have ever been.” A gesture of respect was their 
only answer. An hour later their Colonel came 
and found them in readiness for a bivouac. 


DOUGLAS ; TENDER AND TRUE . 


67 


“ That is right, ” he said, and, “ well done.” 
It was all, yet it was a world of praise to those 
rough fellows, who adored their Colonel even as 
much as they loved his young Lieutenant. 

“You always do things right, Grant,” he said, 
laying his hand with a caressing manner on the 
young man’s shoulder. 

“ Thanks, Colonel ! who would not for a word 
of praise from you ? ” A moment later : ‘ 4 Colo- 
nel, did you see the little sleeper under the 
orange tree ? ’ ’ 

“Yes, and never have I seen a sweeter picture !” 

“ That is the reason of the enforced silence on 
the men.” 

“You are thoughtful, Grant, I will see that 
the little one is neither alarmed or disturbed.” 

The young soldier was sent off on other duties. 
Returning the next day his first thought was 
for the little one. As he went up the flower-bor- 
dered walk he saw the tall form of Col. Baines 
standing beneath a tree, and holding in his arms 
the sleeping child. 

“You are wanted, Colonel,” he said, “yet 
stop one moment as you are.” Quickly cards and 


68 


DOUGLAS; TENDER AND TRUE. 


a pencil were taken from his pocket. In a few 
moments a correct sketch was made of both 
soldier and child. “ Now, be still a few moments 
longer.” Gently turning the pretty head to suit 
his fancy, he made another sketch. “ The first 
is yours, my friend,” handing it to the officer, 
“ this last one is my own. Give her to me, I 
will walk with her until she awakes.” A satis- 
fied sigh escaped the child’s lips, as the dainty 
head fell forward on the young soldier’s bosom, 
while one arm stole unconsciously around his 
neck, and the whispered word, “ papa ” came to 
his ears, and he knew that the child was dream- 
ing of the soldier-father so far away. A 
moment later the pretty eyes unclosed and gazed 
with an unasked querry into his own. 

“Do not be alarmed,” he said. “ My Colo- 
nel was called away, and rather than awaken 
you, he put you in my arms.” 

“ Please, lam rested now, I thank you. Will 
you put me in my chair? ” 

He did as she requested. “Are you the 
Lieutenant?” she asked. 

“Yes.” 


DOUGLAS; TENDER AND TRUE. 


69 


“ He said we must be friends.’ ’ 

“ We will be friends,” he answered. “ I 
shall push you over the lawn in your chair, 
or carry you in my arms each day. And now, 
will you tell me your name? ” 

“ My name is Muriel Dacre.” 

“ A pretty name and suits you, and mine is 
not half so pretty. It is Douglas Grant.” 

“ I think it suits you,” she said, “ for Douglas 
is ‘ tender and true,’ and I like the name.” 

“ Then will you try to forget the color of my 
coat, and like me also?” 

“ I do not hate the color of your coat,” she 
said, “I could not, for my mama’s eyes were 
blue.” 

“ Now you must tell me something of your- 
self.” In her own quaint manner, she told him 
of her friends, of the rector, w r ho was also her 
teacher — of Doctor Lands, the physician who 
attended her, of her boy friend Dorrance Vane 
of her old black mammy, and of Nero. 

“ Who is Nero?” 

“ Here he is,” fondling the huge New Found- 
land. “ My other friends are tied, papa’s 


70 


DOUGLAS; TENDER AND TRUE. 


servants, you know, yet my dearest and best 
friends are papa and Dorrance.” 

“ May I inquire who is Dorrance? ” 

“ He is Dorrance Vane,” a smile brightening 
the sweet face. “ Papa’s friend and mine. He 
lived near us several years ago, and came to see 
us often. He is a boy, such a handsome boy, and 
is a soldier. Do you know you make me think 
of Dorrance? ” 

“ How do I bring him to your mind? Tell me, 
child.” A flush went over the pale face. “ His 
ways are all so sweet and tender; your tender 
ways are very much like his.” 

He accepted in silence the compliment so un- 
consciously, yet gracefully tendered. 

When next the doctor visited her the officers 
gave into his keeping, wine, fruits and delicacies 
for the ailing child. The physician saw at a 
glance, that the men were gentlemen, and felt 
that his little charge was safe. And now some 
pleasure crept into her life. She recited her 
lessons to the young officer, and he read aloud to 
her, or would carry her in his strong, young arms, 
taking long walks in the park, more often in the 


DOUGLAS; TENDER AND TRUE. 71 

flower garden, always devising some pleasure or 
amusement for this child who had crept into his 
life. Once he said to his officer, “That is the 
sweetest child I ever knew.” 

“Yes,” was the reply, “ and the quaint, sad 
way of expressing herself almost unmans me. 
When we first came, she asked me if I had a lit- 
tle girl, and if my little girl resembled her in any 
way? I told her no, that my Madge was not one- 
half so pretty and that she was a rosy, romping 
lass. She put her little hand on my face and 
said, ‘ I am so glad because she can run to meet 
you.’ Then she told me that she had wished to 
be stout and rosy, and able to run about, and her 
papa had said he loved her best as she was, and, 
added the child, ‘ I never let papa hear me make 
that wish again, it hurt him so, and I try to be 
content.’ Why, Grant, the men are all in love 
with the little thing ! ” 

“No wonder,” answered the young man; 
“ she is always working for them ; yesterday she 
spent in mending socks, to-day she is busy mark- 
ing handkerchiefs. I heard her tell Dow that 
she had a nice band for his hat; her task for to- 


72 


DOUGLAS ; TENDER AND TRUE. 


morrow is to make some knap-sacks; her little 
fingers are never idle.” 

4 4 Who would have thought,” laughed Colonel 
Baines, 4 4 that we would fall in love with a rebel 
soldier’s child?” 44 Strange things do happen,” 
was the reply. * 

Once during that sweet summer time came a 
day of agony for Muriel. The crippled limbs 
were wracked with a mortal pain, great moans 
came from the frail body, her lips were blood- 
less, while the sweet eyes grew dark with pain. 
The young soldier chafed the small, cold hands, 
and wiped the moisture from her brow. . One by 
one the men had come into the large room, 
wishing to be of some service to the patient 
little sufferer. The Colonel had turned away ; 
he could not bear to see her agony, or to 
watch the mute appeal for aid in those sweet 
eyes. Once the cry of 44 Mama,” broke from 
the pale lips, then again : 44 Oh, Mama, I want 

you, I try so hard not to grieve, because T 
promised, yet I want you always. Mama, dar- 
ling, your baby wants you now.” 

44 Don’t you fret, honey, your mama is a 


DOUGLAS ; TENDER AND TRUE. 


73 


blessed angel in heaven. The old black mammy 
will take care of the baby, so don’t fret, my 
lamb, your mamma would cry were she kneeling 
at the great white throne, if she knew her baby 
was wishing for her.” Eyes grew dim that were 
all unused to weeping. 

“ Mammy, can we do nothing for her?” asked 
more than one of those rough men. 

Even as hot water was brought in with which 
to bathe her feet, the physician came. 

“ How now, darling?” he cried, and assisted 
by Grant he went to work, and soon the terrible 
pain was lulled. 

“Doctor, I had a bad turn, that was all.” 

“ That was more than enough. I was in hopes 
that you would have no more of those bad turns, 
my dear.” 

“ Thank you,” she said, “I am much better 
now. Doctor, please thank these gentlemen, 
they are so kind, and are sorry for me.” Then 
the shy eyes rested on the young soldier’s hand- 
some face and they silently expressed a world 
of thanks. 

One and all vied in acts of kindness, and in 


74 


DOUGLAS ; TENDER AND TRUE. 


ministering to the wants of the sick child. 
Strange, though the attacks were most severe, 
they detracted very little from her strength. 
Even the next day, had it not have been for the 
excessive pallor of the lovely face, one could 
scarce have told that she had been suffering. 

A few days later a letter came from her father 
saying that by a certain night, Muriel, the nurse, 
and Nero, must be in readiness to be moved over 
to Texas. He wrote to the doctor, asking him to 
extend thanks to the Union soldiers, both officers 
and men, for their courtesy and kindness to his 
little daughter. He was, he said, inexpressibly 
touched by her allusions to them in her letters. 

The men in blue were glad to hear that she 
would be sent away, for their own movements 
were uncertain, and they might be ordered away 
at any time, and they did not want to leave her 
there. 

A short time after her illness, the soldier whose 
hat band she had mended, came in with a pack- 
age of books. 

“ These are for you,” he said. 

“ Oh ! I thank you,” cried the child, “ I will 


DOUGLAS; TENDER AND TRUE. 


75 


take them with me when I go,” then in a shy, 
tender tone: “ Might I kiss you, please? ” 

He stooped, a flush of pleasure coming over 
his face ; the soft young arms enfolded his neck 
while she kissed his lips. “ May God guard 
you,” was all she said, yet the soldier never for- 
got the sweet words. All through that dreadful 
four years, even when in the midst of battle, he 
felt that the child’s prayer would be heard, and 
that her God would guard him. A change came 
over him. His wild, reckless way gave place to 
a quiet manner. His oaths were heard no more 
and his scoffs at religion were forever over. His 
comrades noticed the change, yet they chaffed 
him not, for they too had “ entertained an angel 
unawares.” 

And now the night of her departure was at 
hand. The men came forward to take a tender 
farewell, 'for she had grown dear to those stern 
hearts. A sweet caress was in eyes and voice, a 
hand-clasp for each one, and more than one 
stooped and pressed his lips to the child’s fair 
brow. 

“ Good-bye, dear Colonel,” and the frail arms 


76 


DOUGLAS; TENDER AND TRUE. 


clasped him close. “ I will always wish for 
your safety, and that Madge will run to meet you 
very soon.’’ 

The young officer was the last to say farewell, 
and he would escort her to the water’s edge. 

“ Ah ! there is Dorrance, and Doctor Lands ! ” 

The young man sprang forward. “ My darling,” 
he cried, as he kissed the sweet face. Then in a 
pretty, childish way, she introduced the young 
men, who measured each other at a glance. 

“ Dorrance,” she said, “ Lieutenant Grant has 
been most kind to me.” 

“ I thank you, sir, in her father’s name and 
in mine for all courtesies shown to her,” he said. 
The Federal officer bowed in reply, while a flush 
darkened his handsome face. 

Dorrance turned to make some remark to the 
physician, who had already taken leave of the 
child. 

The young Lieutenant bent over the little one. 
“Give me one kiss, sweet. If I live we will 
meet again. Wear this.” As he threw a gold 
chain, to which was attached a locket, around her 
neck, “ and now, good-bye!” 


DOUGLAS; TENDER AND TRUE. 


77 


Her arms were about his neck, her tears on his 
face, while the sweet lips, light as a rose leaf, 
pressed his own. 

“ Oh ! Douglas, so tender to me, good-bye !” 

It was all she said, yet the sad break in the 
sweet voice, the tears upon his face, told more 
than words could have done, how much it cost 
that tender, childish heart to say that word good- 
bye, or to part from him. 



78 


DOUGLAS; TENDER AND TRUE. 


CHAPTER VI. 

t HE days that had passed so peacefully for 
the little girl were fraught with excitement 
for the two she so fondly loved. Her father go- 
ing out as a private in a Mississippi regiment had 
been rapidly promoted, first as Captain, then for 
some act of gallantry had been awarded a Colo- 
nel’s commission over a South Carolina regiment . 
He had fought side by side with the famous 
Texas Brigade, and had learned to love the 
troops; he admired their debonair manner, even 
as he loved them for their brave and reckless 
daring. Then the love he felt in every throb of 
his heart for the Texas girl he had so madly 
wooed and won, and so sadly lost, drew him to 
these men from her native State ; then too, 
Dorrance Vane belonged to the Hood Brigade. 
This was another link that bound him to those 
men. 

It was after the removal of McClellan, the 


DOUGLAS; TENDER AND TRUE. 


79 


“ Young Napoleon ” of the Northern Army, that 
a great battle was on tapis. Expectation ran 
high along both lines. The men in the blue with 
their superior numbers,' their improved guns, 
their vast arsenals, and granaries teeming with 
provisions, those finely-drilled, well-clad men, 
were eager to advance against the men in gray, 
against men who had only their prowess on which 
to depend, who had no foreign mercenaries at 
their command, no well-filled granaries, no vast 
stores of ammunition ; who were at times ill-fed 
and poorly clad; who had been derisively dubbed 
“ rag-a-muffins ; M men as eager to enter the 
fray as their Northern brothers were to meet 
them. Many of these men, especially those from 
the Texas side, were exulting in the hope that 
after the next battle, they would come out with 
boots on their feet, and jackets, even of the hated 
blue, on their backs, and it was a fact that after 
the fight many soldiers were seen wearing jack- 
ets which they had turned wrong side out; these 
being trophies of the battle-field. 

It was at the battle of that the Caroli- 

nians and Texans were thrown against the foe. 


80 


DOUGLAS; TENDER AND TRUE. 


The leading figure of the Carolina Infantry, a 
man six feet high, a splendid figure. He looked 
as one born to command. 

He was yards in advance of his column, 
his face set and stern, yet, a tender look 
in the dark eyes, a caressing softness in the 
voice, as he called out, “Men, follow me! ” 
They obeyed his order, yet even as they 
approached the battery, a murderous fire opened 
upon them, which rapidly thinned their ranks. 
It was then the men in blue pressed forward, and 
those gray-clad soldiers were forced step by step 
to give back. Even as his line wavered the 
stalwart form went down. He had been the 
target for many a Yankee bullet; struck in the 
thigh, he reeled and fell. A young artilleryman, 
an officer in blue, had noticed his courage and as 
he fell sprang forward, and caught the reeling 
form. “ Here men,” to a couple of his own 
soldiers, “ Take this soldier to my tent, haste 
for a surgeon and see that his wants are sup- 
plied.” They called a litter bearer, and the 
rebel Colonel was carried from the field. 

A few hours later the young officer strode 


DOUGLAS; TENDER AND TRUE. 


81 


into the tent; meeting the surgeon at the door 
he asked, “ How is he?” 

“ At first I feared it was more serious than it 
is. He will live unless gangrene sets in ; yet, 
will be a cripple for life.” 

“ Poor fellow,” sighed the young man. 

The surgeon eyed him keenly. 

44 Grant, is this a friend of yours?” 

“ No, doctor, I never saw him until to-day. 
He made such a gallant fight that my heart went 
out to him, as he fell, and our men crowded 
around ; I saved him from their bayonets. Do 
all that you can for him, doctor, you shall be 
amply repaid.” 

“ I will,” said the physician, “ even though he 
is a rebel, humanity points that way.” 

“ Can I speak to him?” 

“ Oh ! yes, it will not hurt him, a quiet 
chat.” 

Going to the wounded man the young soldier 
bent over him. “ How are you resting? and is 
your wound very painful? ” 

“I am most comfortable, and am somewhat 
easy. The pain seems lulled.” 

6 


82 


DOUGLAS; TENDER AND TRUE. 


The officer laid his hand upon the white fore- 
head. 

“Ah! your hand is soft as the hand of a 
woman, and so cooling to my brow,” then look- 
ing up, he said, “ I must thank you for my life, 
and for more than life; a little child, my fair- 
haired baby girl awaits me yonder; her heart 
would have sorely grieved had I went down this 
day. I wish to speak my thanks, her thanks and 
mine before I go off into that land of dreams, to 
which the surgeon’s opiates will send me.” 

“ That is all right, Col. Dacre. Don’t worry 
about thanks now.” 

“And you,” the soft voice took a caressing 
turn; “ You are the Douglas Grant, of my little 
Muriel’s letters? Yes, I know from her pen 
picture. How can I thank you for all your 
kindness to my child? ” 

“ Go to sleep now, Colonel. We will have a 
long talk some other time.” 

On awakening, after a few hours of refresh- 
ing sleep, his first question to the old surgeon, 
who stood beside his cot, was this: “ Had no 
one been in to see him?” 


DOUGLAS; TENDER AND TRUE. 


83 


“Yes, Lieut. Grant was here for a few 
moments. And, now, has your sleep made you 
feel better?” 

“ Oh ! yes, only for a slight giddiness, I would 
feel all right.” “ That is the after effects of 
the opiate; it will soon wear off.” 

A couple of weeks had elapsed ; the wounded 
man receiving good treatment recovered rapidly. 
Lieut. Grant managed to see him, if for only a 
few moments, each day; sent to him papers, 
books and fruit. At the close of the second 
week he came in. 

“ How are you this evening? ” 

“ Much better, a little stiff from having taken 
no exercise, that is all.” 

“Do you think that you could take a ride? 
Say in an ambulance?” 

“Yes, I would feel like a new man, were I out 
in the air again.” 

“ I have good news for you, Colonel ; our sur- 
geon says that you are all right now ; I will take 
you through our lines to-night, and send you to 
your friends ; yet, a month in Richmond at a 


84 


DOUGLAS; TENDER AND TRUE*. 


hospital, and perfect rest for that time, will do 
you good. Has our surgeon prescribed for you.” 

“ Do you mean to say that, this night, I will 
be with my friends, that I am not to be held as a 
prisoner of war? ” 

“ Yes, and to-night you will be free.” “ You 
have been a generous foe, you saved my life and 
have attended me as a welcome guest. Have in- 
deed been to me a good Samaritan. Douglas, I 
must call you so, there can be no question of 
ceremony between us. Douglas, how can I ever 
repay you for this debt of kindness? ” 

“ There is no question of a debt between us, 
and you must not fancy yourself under any 
obligation.” 

“If I live and ever can I will repay you. 
Owned I a kingdom, the best half of it would I 
give to you. Though I will be poor after this 
war, I may some time be able to do you a kind- 
ness.” 

“Very well,” said the young man, “some- 
time, in the near future I trust, I may remind 
you of your promise.” 


DOUGLAS; TENDER AND TRUE. 


85 


“ And I will never go back on my word; yet, 
tell me, how you managed to get my release from 
custody? ” 

44 My Colonel has a 'soft spot in his heart. I 
found it long ago ; your little Muriel also found 
it. He would have seen you, yet is always on the 
move ; he left me to carry out the wish of both 
our hearts, your restoration to your men. It is 
also for Muriel’s sake.” 

The same night he was safely escorted through 
the Federal lines and beyond their outmost 
picket. For a moment his arms were around the 
Union soldier, his face pressed to the young, 
boyish face, as he murmured a husky, 44 God 
bless and keep you, Douglas Grant !” 

In a short while he reached his men, who 
greeted him with warmth. After a few hours of 
rest he was taken to the Hospital of Saint Frances 
de Sales in Richmond. Two days after his arrival, 
he, against the doctor’s decree, got up and 
limped over the room; the wound broke afresh, 
loss of blood ensued, and a fever set in. 

44 Foolhardy, I call this!” growled Doctor 
Winter. The same evening he sent for an ex- 


86 


DOUGLAS ; TENDER AND TRUE. 


perienced nurse. A lady came. “ I have come 
to nurse and wait on Colonel Dacre.” 

“Yes, madam, yet, you could not begin 
to stand the fatigue; why. he is delirious 
now, you would be frightened out of your wits 
in an hour.” 

“No, Doctor, only try me. If I do not suit 
then you can discharge me, and I will not grum- 
ble if you do so. I have seen some desperate 
cases; this, I hear, is one.” 

“ Your name? ” 

“ Sister Vincent.” 

“ Why did you not say so at once? We all 
know Sister Vincent as the best nurse in the 
department. I give you full control.” 

“Thanks!” was all she said; she went into 
the room, her face pale; a hard look in the 
lovely eyes. The physician gave directions 
about the medicine, and left her arranging lint 
and bandages. As she glanced at the motionless 
form on the cot, then at the still, white face, a 
sensation as of faintness came over her. It was 
an effort that caused the awful dizziness to 
depart. Crushing the agony that tugged at her 


DOUGLAS; TENDER AND TRUE. 8 7 

heart strings, she moved to his side, and gazed at 
the once loved face. When last seen it was in 
the little vine-clad home so far away, and his 
last look was full of love for her, and it was thus, 
after all the weary months, and years, it was 
thus they met again. Looking at the wasted 
hands, at the golden hair, and pale, handsome 
face, a host of tender memories stirred her 
woman’s heart, the hard look left the sweet eyes, 
which now grew full of tenderness. “I will 
attend him, he need never know,” she mur- 
mured. He awoke delirious. Her soft hand 
smoothed his brow, her low, tender voice 
soothed him ; his mind wandered to the old 
times, to the days long gone. Looking in her 
face, no ray of consciousness in his eyes, he 
would cry out: “Oh! dear, I love you so, I 
forgot honor, manhood, all for my love’s sake, 
yet, my punishment was greater than I could 
bear. Sweet, I love you so, and l can never find 
you; oh, cruel fate to tear my one love from 
me.” At another time. “ Yes, it is our flower, 
love, it will always be dear, the little crimson 
flower because my dear love chooses it for me.” 


88 


DOUGLAS ; TENDER AND TRUE. 


Then the troubled tone would wear away, and the 
voice grow full of a touching pathos. “No, 
papa, will never leave Muriel, poor baby,” then 
in a voice of pain, “ Don’t wish it, darling, papa 
does not want his flower to be a great romping 
girl, he wants her to be like no other little 
girl.” 

Ah ! how well that silent watcher remembered 
all those loving whims; he had’ said that he 
wanted her to be like no other woman. How her 
heart ached as her mind kept pace with all the 
vagaries of his unconscious moments. At some 
other time it was to a Douglas Grant he talked, 
a Union soldier; this she did not understand, for 
Muriel’s name too was often mentioned. Could 
her heart bear up under this ordeal of torture? 
How she longed to take that dear head upon her 
bosom, and seek to comfort him with words of 
love. Those days of waiting, the nights of 
watching, told fearfully upon her, as it was only 
at long intervals that she would snatch a few brief 
moments of rest. He seemed always restless in 
those few moments when she was absent from 
the room. Her voice alone could soothe him. 


DOUGLAS; TENDER AND TRUE. 


89 


* “You had better rest, child,” said Doctor 
Winter. 

“ Oh ! no, I am not tired,” yet she grew thin 
and pale, great dark circles around the lovely 
eyes told of the weary vigil that she kept. 
The patient slowly regained his strength, the 
deli rum ceased, and he was out of danger. 
Standing at the head of his bed, smoothing the 
white brow, her tears falling thick and fast, he 
awoke, and put one hand over the little hand that 
was on his forehead. The next moment she had 
flitted past, all that his dim eyes saw was a dark 
robed slender figure, a pretty head (from which 
the small white bonnet had fallen) covered with 
soft dark curls, worn close and short like a boy’s, 
then the perfume of violet came to him ; he 
found a dainty handkerchief beside him ; yes, it 
was her choice perfume, he would love it to the 
day of his death. He remained quiet, yet she 
came not again, and he fell asleep, the handker- 
chief across his face. 

Doctor Winter met the sister as she was passing 
through the long hall. 

“ I was coming for you,” he said, “ a soldier, 


90 


DOUGLAS; TENDER AND TRUE. 


poor fellow, his hours, nay his moments, are 
numbered, has expressed a wish that you would 
come to him.” 

For a moment her heart stood still as she thought 
of Dorrance. Could it be the bright, handsome 
boy? Then her thoughts went out to that fond 
mother, in the far off Texas home, whose tender 
heart would break if she never saw her boy again. 
She hastened to the wounded man — a sigh of 
relief escaped her. No, that head covered with 
silky, black hair, — no, it was not Dorrance 
Vane. In a moment she was by his side. The 
physician turned and left them. A startled look 
came into her eyes. 

“ Doctor Oran ! ” 

“ Mrs. Vincent ! ” 

“ I am sorry to see you thus,” she said. 

“ Yes, I brought it on myself, and by an act 
of rashness. You will say an act of wickedness, 
when you hear it all.” 

“Can I do anything for you ?” she gentty asked. 

“ No,” he curtly answered. “ Do you 
remember the day you so scornfully rejected my 
love — ” 


DOUGLAS; TENDER AND TRUE. 


91 


“ Not scornfully,” she interrupted. “I told 
you that you were acting rashly, unwisely, in 
trying to force your love where it could meet 
no return. I even told you that my love was 
with the man who had ruined my life.” 

“Yes,” he said, “ a man who had soiled your 
good name, yet I felt that you were not to 
blame — that you were innocent, and when your 
babe — ” 

“ Hush ! ” as her face grew white as a snow- 
drift. “ Hush, do not name that little child.” 

“ Well,” he went on. “ I loved you madly, 
recklessly. 1 would have made you my wife ; 
yet you sent me from you. Did I not swear to 
be revenged? I told you that I would pierce 
your heart. I swore to accomplish the death of 
the man you loved. I had heard his name in 
your moments of delirium. I had only to bide 
my time, and I would find him. I come of a 
race who never forgive. I came to Virginia and 
joined the Confederate army. It was an easy thing 
to discover Col. Dacre’s command. It is need- 
less to tell you that it was by my hand that your 
rebel Colonel fell. The next day he was reported 


92 


DOUGLAS; TENDER AND TRUE. 


missing. I went over to the enemy. By acci- 
dent I learned that they, the Federal troops, had 
captured Col. Dacre, had saved his life, and sent 
him to his own troops, who would take him to a 
hospital in this city. Then my one thought was 
to get back to my own command. I would not 
be baulked of my revenge. The Yankees 
watched me closely ; they deemed me a spy. I 
tried to escape. One of their sentinels shot and 
left me for dead. The dew, that fell like a 
gentle shower on my up-turned face revived me. 
I crawled away, and was found by some rebel 
cavalrymen, who brought me into camp and sent 
me here. Ah ! fate plays strange freaks. I am 
dying; near me is your betrayer wounded unto 
death; here also is the woman whose life he 
ruined ; the woman who has sent me to the 
devil.” 

Her eyes were full of horror, as she gazed upon 
him; this man had tried to commit murder; he 
had deserted his country’s flag; oh, the sin, the 
the shame. She turned to go, then a divine pity 
filled her heart. He was dying friendless and 
alone, he had saved her life. For one moment 


DOUGLAS ; TENDER AND TRUE. 


93 


her hand rested on his forehead. “ Can I do 
anything for you? Are you in much pain? ” 
“Thank you. Nothing can be done for me. 
My game of life is almost played ; I,” a grim 
smile passing over the pale face ; “ thought I held 
the winning card, but it turns out to be the 
deuce. Yet, what does it matter? All ends at 
last in nothing.” 

“ Oh ! say not so,” she cried. “ Let me pray 
for you? Ask God to pardon you? ” 

“ No,” he said. “ If I were to ask pardon it 
would be of you. Yet as I have said I come of 
a race who neither ask nor grant forgiveness.” 

“ Is there no message for any one? ” 

“ No,” he said, “ my people will never know 
of this. Oran is not my name ; they will never 
know, thank God ! ” His lips quivered. He 
gasped for breath ; she tenderly lilted his head 
and wiped the death damp from his brow. That 
moment he was with the Creator whose name 
had been the last word on his lips. 

“ Poor soul,” she murmured, “ may God for- 
give you, even as I have done.” 

The doctor hastened to her side. 


94 


DOUGLAS; TENDER AND TRUE. 


“ All is over,” she said. 

“ Yes, child, and it is best so, he suffered 
untold agony, yet bore it without a mur- 
mur.” 

With a woman’s tenderness he closed the lids 
over the dark eyes. 

“Doctor, once I was ill, he saved my life. 
Doctor, he is far from his native land, his sunny 
Spain. Here he must have burial befitting a 
surgeon of our army. Will you attend to this 
for me? Here,” placing a purse in his hand, 
“ therb must be a plain marble tablet, with this 
inscription,” writing a few words on a leaf from 
her pocket book; these the words; “Doctor 
Oran, C. S. Army. God give the soldier peace 
and rest.” 

“ Everything shall be as you wish ; yet, he gave 
me a purse, which contained money sufficient for 
this need.” 

“ Give his money to his church. He was a 
Roman Catholic.” 

“ Very well, I will see that your wishes are 
fulfilled.” 

She bowed and passed out of the hall. 


DOUGLAS ; TENDER AND TRUE. 


95 


Hours later on Col. Darcy awakening he saw 
Dr. Winter sitting near him. 

“ Doctor, where is my nurse? See, she has 
left this,” holding up the dainty piece of 
lawn. 

“ That does not matter, and to your question 
of a moment since, she has gone to take a rest, 
she was completely knocked up, for we had a time 
with you.’’ 

“ I have never heard her name.” 

We call her Sister Vincent. It is her name 
too. She belongs to the Vincent of New Orleans, 
had some notion of taking the veil, and immur- 
ing herself in a convent, then the war breaking 
out caused her to give up that idea, and she 
came here as a nurse, and is a capital one, I can 
assure you, or to-day you would be in the grave- 
yard.” 

“ Do you think that I will be tit for service 
soon? ”* 

“ Yes, or you may go home and recruit your 
strength. There has been a young fellow to see 
you. He came a little while ago, his name Dor- 
rance, — I cannot think of it, — he will come again. 


96 


DOUGLAS ; TENDER AND TRUE. 


Ah, here he is now,” as a young soldier entered 
the room. 

The meeting was an affecting one. “I heard 
that you were here and came the first opportun- 
ity.” 

“ Glad to see you, dear boy. How are affairs 
outside? ” 

44 Gloomy ; we need men, yet often the troops 
we have got but little to eat and are poorly clad, 
yet they never complain, are determined, and will 
never desert their duty.” 

44 My men, Dorrance, do they miss me?” 

44 Ah ! Colonel. Can you ask me that? Could 
any one help missing you, I wonder?” 

The while the wounded man was thinking that 
there was one who seemed never to have missed 
him, out of whose heart he had passed com- 
pletely. 

4 4 You will take a 4 leave,' Colonel, and go 
home? ” 

44 No, tell my men that soon I will be with 
them, and give them my love, — and Dorrance, I 
have letters from the child.” 

44 Yes, I have a late letter from the little one. 


DOUGLAS ; TENDER AND TRUE. 


97 


I have written to tell her how yomwere getting 
on, so she will rest easy.” 

“ Thanks, dear boy, you are always thought 
ful.” Then he told of his capture, and of the 
kind treatment he had received. “ Dorrance,” 
he went on, “ it was to the Douglas of my little 
daughter’s letters to whom I am indebted for my 
life.” 

The hot blood surged to the young man’s face, 
yet he made no comment. An hour later he had 
taken leave of his friend and gone to his com- 
mand. 

Left alone the elder man brooded over the 
past. “ Sister Vincent 1” he murmured the 
doctor was honest, yet he made a mistake; the 
woman who nursed me was my one dear love, 
my darling Cecile ; her presence ever soothed me. 
Fool that I was not to know it sooner. I will find 
her if I live. Oh, to hold her in my arms again as 
in the olden time.” He was very careful now 
and did not overtax his strength, and it was 
only a short time until he was able to take com- 
mand, yet there would always be a limp in the 
gait that had been so full of careless grace. Now 
7 


98 DOUGLAS; TENDER AND TRUE. 

his men, those brave Carolinians, crowded around 
him. Many an eye all unused to tears grew dim, 
as they looked upon his face so wasted by the 
terrible agony he had undergone. 

“We are glad to have you with us, Colonel,” 
exclaimed more than one voice. 

“I am happy to be among you again, my 
friends,” was his reply. 

Though the men missed the former brightness 
of his manner, yet the winning, caressing way 
remained. His thoughts would linger with the 
dark-haired woman who had nursed him. 

Often while his men were seated around the 
camp-fire, chatting busily of their past, present, 
or future, spinning old yarns, telling tales of by- 
gone days, or building castles for the future, 
he, their chief, would sit alone, his head leaning 
on his hand, weaving no bright dreams, thinking, 
perchance, of a dead past, mourning over blasted 
hopes and a ruined life. 


DOUGLAS; TENDER AND TRUE. 


99 


CHAPTER VII. 

S HE trip to Texas was neither dull or weari- 
some to the little girl. Her boy friend 
had procured an ambulance, and had everything 
arranged for the comfort of his little charge. 
She enjoyed the journey, petted by him, humored 
and waited on by the old nurse ; with Nero at her 
feet, an open book in her lap, she was content. 

In safety they reached the small town where 
Mrs. Boyce resided. Muriel was warmly wel- 
comed, and the child felt, as those kind arms 
embraced her, that she would not lack a woman’s 
love or care. 

Much surprised was Dorrance to learn that 
Mrs. Vincent had gone away. 

“ She could not rest content, and wished to be 
where she could earn her living,” said Mrs. 
Boyce. 

“Yet, mother,” said the young soldier, “I 
was more than willing to have helped her, and it 


100 


DOUGLAS ; TENDER AND TRUE . 


would have been better had she remained with 
you.” 

“Yes,” answered the kindly voice, “so I 
told her; yet after the baby died, — such a pretty 
child it was, and, bless me, it had a look of this 
little one,” as she caressed the child, “ the same 
soft golden hair, and the self-same eyes, — I tried 
to keep her from going, but she grieved, and I 
felt that it would be better if her mind could be 
weaned from thoughts of her dead baby. She 
left no address, yet she will let me hear from 
her, and this she claims as home.” 

All this while the little woman was busy pre- 
paring refreshments for her boy and his little 
charge. 

“ Dorrance, you will not be going away at 
once? ” 

“ Yes, mother, I leave almost immediately for 
Virginia.” 

Shy and reticent by nature was Muriel, yet 
from the moment those motherly arms enfolded 
her she felt at home. The welcome was two-fold. 

Mrs. Boyce was passionately fond of children; 
then again, this one was, in a manner, a protege 


DOUGLAS ; TENDER AND TRUE. 101 

of her boy’s, and he was to her as the apple of 
her eye, and the fair little stranger was a cripple. 
That alone would have insured her a warm place 
in that loving, childless heart. 

“ I wonder, Muriel, if you will be thinking of 
me when I am away,” said the young fellow, a 
wistful look in the dark eyes, a tenderness in 
his voice, always there when he spoke to her. 

“ Ah ! yes, and praying all the while for your 
safe return, and for my dear papa.” 

“ Yes, but, Muriel, you must not forget me 
for those confounded Yankees, that Colonel and 
his Lieutenant. 

“ I never forget old friends for new ones,” 
said the child, “ and, Dorrance, why do you abuse 
them ? I thought that you would love them, they 
were so good to me; papa will, I know.” 

“ You don’t understand,” he said, a dusky red 
crossing his gay, handsome face, “ Darling, you 
would never understand, yet I will even try to 
love the Colonel if it will please you. I cannot 
promise to love the Lieutenant.” 

“ I know, Dorrance, you would be kind to him 
if he were in trouble, and you could aid him, be- 


102 


DOUGLAS; TENDER AND TRUE. 


cause he was so good to a poor little crippled 
girl.” 

“ Don’t, child, don’t you know that you are to 
be envied, with your heart of gold, and that angel 
face? 

“ I am so sorry that your pretty lady has 
gone away.” 

“ Yes, I too am sorry, she would have loved you 
dearly — you must not feel lonely, the good little 
mother will pet and care for you, and you must 
spend many moments in writing to us.” 

“Yes, and in working for you and dear papa.” 

“ And now, my darling, one good-bye kiss, for 
I must go.” 

“ This for papa, and this for you.” Tears 
rained down the little face. “Oh! Dorrance, 
it is so hard to see you go, and it may be such 
a weary waiting before papa and you return 
home again.” 

At first the days were long and dreary to the 
child; she never felt quite well, as it was months 
before she became acclimated. Then after those 
months were passed, the fresh, brisk wind 
seemed to strengthen the delicate frame, and 


DOUGLAS ; TENDER AND TRUE. 


103 


brought a faint tinge to the clear, pale face. 
The kind woman proved a mother indeed to her. 
Her lessons were not neglected, for Mrs. Boyce, 
being a scholar of high standing, it soon became 
a pleasure for her to teach and hear the little 
girl recite her lessons. When not at her books, 
she was spoilt by the old mammy, who was ever 
ready to wheel her in her light wicker chair 
about the lawn or down the wide, shady street. 
When not at study, it was Muriel’s great delight 
to knit woolen socks, or long white scarfs, some- 
times called comforters, which when finished she 
sent to the soldiers. Her small hands were never 
idle ; many were the packages that went from 
the cottage to the army in Northern Virginia. 
Sometimes Mrs. Boyce would tell her about the 
lovely lady who had gone away, and of the baby 
whose little home was in the grave-yard. 

“ How I wish it were alive and here. I would 
pet and love it.” 

Each evening the old nurse would wheel her 
chair to the near church-yard, and each after- 
noon bright flowers were put by dainty hands 


104 


DOUGLAS; TENDER AND TRUE. 


upon the tiny, grassy mound, over which no stone 
was raised, no name was carved. 

“ That baby was just like you, child/’ Mrs. 
Boyce would often say. “ Its mother would have 
loved you for its sake.” 

“ Then I hope to see her some day, for I want 
her to love me. Dorrance says she is so sweet 
and good. Will she ever come again, auntie?” 

“ Yes, dear, when she needs rest she will 
come home.” 



DOUGLAS ; TENDER AND TRUE. 


105 


CHAPTER VIII. 

S FEW evenings after Colonel Dacre’s return 
to camp a letter came from Muriel. Thus 

it ran : 

‘ ‘ My Own Dear Papa : 

“ I write at once to tell you how relieved I am, 
for dear Dorrance has written to me, yet I was 
very uneasy. In the papers your name was 
among the missing. Oh! father; will I ever 
forget that day? Papa, you cannot know how 
I suffered. It was a bright day. God never 
made a lovelier sunshine. A royal summer day — 
the flowers were so lovely, the birds sang 
so sweetly. All nature seemed so gay. Yet in 
one little moment the loveliness was blotted from 
my view. When I saw your name as missing, 
the sunshine faded, the day was dark as the 
blackest December night to me. When I opened 
my eyes again, oh, father, the very flowers 


106 


DOUGLAS; TENDER AND TRUE. 


seemed less fair, the sweet bird-music mocked 
my grief, the bright glint of the sun was hateful. 
Was I a very wicked girl to turn in anger from 
those lovely flowers and beautiful singing birds, 
and because the bright sunlight seemed to mock 
me? Oh, my heart was dead to everything. I for- 
got my one woe, my poor, crippled body. Ah! 
most willingly would I have become the most 
deformed of all human kind, if by the exchange 
I could have unread those cruel words. Thank 
heaven, darling papa, you have never known such 
grief as that. Then, oh, father, God surely 
lives and is loving and merciful, and has been so 
to me. I cannot thank Him enough. Yet I will 
love His darkest days, His brightest sunshine, 
His lovely flowers and bird music. I now see 
that all nature was striving to give me comfort. 
A few days later, yet, oh, what an eternity 
those few days were to me, a Northern paper 
came, in it a marked paragraph — 4 Col. Dacre 
of the S. Carolina troops wounded and with 
Northern friends, where he will receive every 
kindness and close attention, in no danger, and 
earliest convenience will be restored to his com- 


DOUGLAS; TENDER AND TRUE. 


107 


mand.’ That was all, yet, papa, those few 
lines acted like a charm. I am the very happiest 
and most thankful little girl alive. My heart is 
so full of gladness that my one affliction will 
never, in the days to come, cause me to murmur.. 
Then Dorrance’s letter came; it gave me pleasure 
and his mother was delighted. She is writing 
to him even now. My heart goes out in thanks 
and love to those Northern friends who were so 
good to you. I like to sit and wonder whose 
was the hand to give you aid, in your hour of 
need. If it was the kind Colonel, or if it was one 
of those privates who had such dear, good hearts, 
or if it were Mr. Douglas Grant? Heaven bless 
the hand that gave you help ! And now, I 
must tell you your little girl is quite well 
and contented, and will never murmur any more 
because she is not like other little girls. I have 
so much for which to be thankful — your life, the 
sweetest, dearest boon that a loving God could 
give me. You must not be uneasy about me. 
This home of Dorrance’s is so sweet, and his 
little mother so kind, and mammy spoils me as 
she always would. They say I am inches taller, 


108 


DOUGLAS; TENDER AND TRUE. 


if you don’t hasten and come home you will have 
a grown up daughter when you do come. Ah, no-, 
papa, I will always be your baby. I will finish 
this and then kneel to pray for your safety, for 
our dear Dorrance, and for those Northern 
friends, and for the one who so kindly sent me 
the paper. It is not wrong to pray for them, 
because I remember people were distressed, pil- 
lage and destruction going on all around our 
home, and they protected and were kind to my 
nurse, to Nero, and to me. Nero is now at my 
feet, and would join auntie, mammy and myself, 
in love to you, and to Dorrance, if he could talk. 

God bless you, father dear, good-bye. 

“ Your loving little girl, 

“ Muriel Dacre.” 

He sat apart from his men ; they too were busy 
with their mail, and as they read those missives 
so precious from homes in the Palmetto State, a 
silence fell over the camp. Each and every 
heart was turned to home and dear ones. Here 
stood a group of men, four or five in all, from 
the same town. 


DOUGLAS; TENDER AND TRUE. 


109 


“ Ah ! boys ! ” exclaims a fair-haired lad with 
a handsome sunny face, “Mine is from the darl- 
ing blessed mother ! ’ ’ as eagerly he opened the 
envelope. 

Said another, a dark-eyed man, “ Mine is from 
my own dear wife.” Such tenderness in the 
voice told of a wealth of love in that manly 
heart. 

“ My letter, Harry,” said one young soldier to 
another, “ is from my sister, the best and sweet- 
est sister man ever had.” 

“ While mine,” answered Harry, “ is from — I 
will not say from whom, you can guess — and 
Phil, it is from the truest, tenderest heart,” for a 
moment his dark eyes lingered fondly on the 
dainty envelope. His letter read he shivered, 
then in a half-laughing voice, he said, “ Some 
one just then walked over my grave.” 

“ Don’t, Harry! we are too near the eve of a 
battle now for jesting.” 

“ Well, laying jests and superstition aside, 
promise me, Phil, that if I fall, you will send a 
package, it is in my breast pocket, to the girl I 
love.” 


110 


DOUGLAS; TENDER AND TRUE. 


“ I promise, yet don’t become despondent. 
Why, old man, you have everything to live for, 
I, save for the dear sister, am alone. If fate 
must choose one of us, I hope the choice may 
fall on me.” 

“Hush! Phil, you are dearer to my heart 
than any brother, and you are not alone, by any 
means, while I live.” 

“Forgive me, Hal, you are the truest friend 
man ever had.” 

Little did those men reck of the dark shadow 
even then coming toward them. The fair-haired 
college boy from Charleston would never more 
feel the hand of the “ darling, blessed mother ” 
upon his sunny curls again, for in the next battle 
a ball was to pierce the loving boyish heart, and 
from that group would the grim angel choose 
another victim, and the choice would fall upon 
brave, handsome Harry Rivers. His fair brow 
would be marred by the cruel bullet that would 
pierce his brain, his raven locks would never 
again be caressed by the hand of the girl he loved. 
She, in her home in that fair “ City by the Sea,” 
would watch for news from him, and though 


DOUGLAS ; TENDER AND TRUE. 


Ill 


that sad news would come tenderly written by a 
brother’s hand, still the waiting heart of that 
fond, gentle watcher would be broken. What 
higher meed of praise could have been hers? 
The brother had said, “ The best and sweetest 
sister,” while the lover had cried out, “ The 
truest, tenderest heart ! ” Ah ! sweet eyes, ten- 
der eyes, you will grow blind with the weary 
weight of tears ; fond heart, true heart, those 
few sad words will crush out the bright- 
ness from your life. Many will be the weeks 
that will come and go before you will arise 
from your bed of illness, and with weak, 
listless hands, open that message from the dead. 
A tiny packet, his picture (in his uniform of 
Captain of the Guards ) and a few loving words 
were all, — and, yes, a dainty glove of lilac kid. 
At sight of this the tears came, she wept as we 
weep when gazing our last on the dear faces of 
our dead. And yet, it was only a little glove, 
that her own small hand had worn, it brought 
memories of that last sweet, sad good-bye. She 
had walked with him to the gate, both so sad 
that the hour of parting had come. “ This 


112 


DOUGLAS; TENDER AND TRUE. 


is my only keepsake, love,” he said, as tenderly 
he smoothed it in his hand. 

“ My lost glove,” she cried. “ Why, Harry, 
you have had it all these months, and I never 
knew?” 

“ Yes,” he had replied, “ and I sent a box of 
kids to you, so dear, ‘ a fair exchange was no 
robbery.’ Yet, darling, this little glove is 
precious to my heart. You lost it the night you 
said the sweet word that sealed my happiness 
for life. I know not, love, what fate awaits me 
yonder, yet I do know that if I never more 
return no other man will ever kiss the lips mine 
hold so dear.” 

“Never,” she had said. He knew that one 
word to be as binding as an oath. 

“ Oh ! my darling. How can 1 let you go? ” 
she cried. 

“ This farewell is as the bitterness of death to 
me,” he said. 

The memory of that sad hour would be with 
her while she lived. A close passionate em- 
brace, a long, lingering look into her lovely 
eyes, kisses on cheek, brow and lips, a low 


DOUGLAS; TENDER AND TRUE. 


113 


tender “God bless and keep you, my own, 
own love ! ” and a second later she was alone, and 
where he had stood in the bright moonlight ( a 
moment since) a dark shadow had fallen ; a cold 
shiver ran over her delicate frame, as she cried 
out, “Oh! my God, let no dark shadow ever 
come over my dear love’s life.” 

Her happiest moments were when the postman 
came and her brave young lover’s letters were in 
her hand; her brother’s missives too were 
precious, for they were always full of Harry. 

The Colonel sat alone musing over his home 
letter. The child-like pathetic lines drew his 
heart away from other sorrow. A shadow fell at 
his feet. Looking up he saw the young collegiate 
standing near. A respectful salute, then in an 
eager, boyish tone: 

“ My Colonel, I hope your ‘bairn’ is well.” 

“ Yes, Charlie, she is quite well. Let me hope 
that you too have had good news from home? ” 

“Very good news. My dear mother is well, 
only I can read between the lines that she is heart- 
sick for her boy,” — his voice would quiver. The 
officer placed his hand gently on the lad’s arm. 

8 


114 


DOUGLAS ; TENDER AND TRUE. 


Looking wistfully at the fair boyish face, he said, 
“ Charlie, l do not like to see you in these heavy 
engagements, I will get an orderly’s place, for 
you, — less danger there.” 

“ Thanks, dear Colonel, I cannot accept your 
kind offer. Oh, no, I came out to win my spurs, 
and what would my mother say? ” A flush cov- 
ered the handsome face. “ Yet, I will always love 
you for this kind thought, always,” as for one 
second he rested his face on the officer’s hand, 
“ and, Colonel, try to take care of yourself, we 
cannot spare you.” 

“ Thanks, my boy.” 

“Only a boy, with a man’s brave heart,” 
murmured the officer (as the youth passed on), a 
suspicious dimness in his eyes as they lingered 
on the slender form until it was lost from view 
by the intervening tents. 

By the merest accident Col. Dacre succeeded 
in sending Muriel’s letter to the young Union 
officer, and during the war Colonel Dacre did 
not again meet the young Federal Lieutenant, 
Douglas Grant. 

Battle after battle had been fought, masses of 


DOUGLAS; TENDER AND TRUE. 


115 


men in blue, generally the scum and the cut- 
throats of the Northern States, aided by mercen- 
aries from foreign lands, who cared not on what 
soil, or for whom they fought, so that the bounty 
was good, men ever ready to pillage and destroy, 
these were hurled against the handful of devoted 
men in gray; men at once the flower and pride*of 
the Southern States, who fought for dear ones, 
and to keep their homes from being desecrated by 
the tread of the vandal horde who dared dispute 
their rights. 

On any battle-field the Federal troops 
outnumbered the Confederates three to one, 
yet, again and again was heard the rebel yell of 
victory. Sternly they fought, yet when that 
darling of the Southern army, Stonewall Jackson, 
fell, there was a gloom cast over the whole South 
that steadfast faith and unequalled daring failed 
to lift. Yet, those half-clad, half starved men 
fought on, determined to fight until never a hope 
remained. Ah ! was there not something grand, 
as well as sadly pathetic in this sublime faith, 
in this love of country, and in the blind devotion 
to that chief whom nations have called “ the 


116 DOUGLAS ; TENDER AND TRUE. 

% 

greatest soldier of the age,” even as his people 
knew him, a tender, loyal-hearted gentleman. 
Such was Robert E. Lee, the idol of the Southern 
soldiery, whether on the banks of the Potomac, 
or on the fair shores of the Rio Grande, all hearts 
turned to Gen. Lee. 

Yes, there was something sadly touching in 
the great Civil War. A mere handful of men, 
volunteer troops, against whom were thrown 
a countless horde. The few against the many, 
fighting with a desperation born of despair, 
giving back inch by inch, slowly but surely, un- 
til they were against the wall, then a hoarse cry 
went up from the broken hearts of those fam- 
ished men, for Grant had starved them out . “We 
will not give up ! We will never give up ! ” Yet, 
Gen. Lee for the sake of those same loyal hearts 
had decided otherwise, and he always decided 
right. It is cruel to torture the caged lion; 
and these men were bound in as by a wall of fire. 

Thus the gray became vanquished by the blue. 

Then what had we left? No country, many 
had no homes, a land ruthlessly torn and de- 
stroyed, pillaged homes, and ruined homesteads, 


DOUGLAS; TENDER AND TRUE. 


117 


weeping children, and broken-hearted women. 
And, Oh ! the many sentinels that Sherman’s 
cruel march had left; the hanging in New Orleans 
of William Mumford for being loyal to his colors, 
also Butler’s most brutal order (No. 22). No 
more shameful and cowardly act was ever perpe- 
trated than when the high representative of the 
Southern States, a man of feeble health and 
delicate frame, was imprisoned in the gloomy 
walls of Fortress Monroe. And it was a cruel 
deed, of which these conquerers were guilty, 
when they put the fetters on that brave, loyal 
man. What an undying insult, to be hurled at 
a vanquished people through their President. 
A nation’s choice, the patriot, Jefferson Davis, a 
man whom his people loved and still love full well ! 

These and many acts too numerous to mention 
were the memories they left to rankle in our 
bleeding hearts. Ah, heaven! could such things 
have happened in a civilized country and in an 
enlightened age? 

Battle had followed battle in quick succession. 
Our brave Carolinians had fought side by side on 
more than one field with the Texans. Many in- 


118 


DOUGLAS; TENDER AND TRUE. 


stances of valor were displayed by these hearts of 
oak. At the Wilderness, Gen. Lee called for the 
Hood Brigade to take a position, and riding for- 
ward, he offered to lead them. For a second a 
stillness as of death was along the lines, when out 
from the ranks came a Texas soldier , an eager 
look in his dark eyes, a flush on ids handsome 
face. In a voice sweet as a woman’s, he said : 

“General, you must not risk your life. We 
will take the position,” and grasping the bridle 
he turned the horse’s head, then returned to his 
command (the 4th Texas regiment.) Ah! yes, 
his words were verified, for the point was 
stormed and taken, yet the brave young soldier 
came not back. The cruel ball was even then in 
waiting to be sped on that, oh, most cruel mis- 
sion. The seconds were but few until the gallant 
form went down, the dark eyes closed in death, 
the brave, faithful heart forever still. Always 
will the name of that young Texas soldier, Groce 
Lawrence, live with the memories of the Wilder- 
ness fight, and shine, side by side, with that of 
Kobert E. Lee. 

Yet, still the tide of war rolled on, some of our 


DOUGLAS; TENDER AND TRUE. 


119 


bravest officers, many of our gallant men had gone 
to swell the ranks of the missing who had fallen 
at Manasses, Seven Pines, Malvern Hill, Gaines’ 
Farm, and many other historic battle-fields in 
both Trans- and Cis-Mississippi Departments. 

They fought and fell for a cause they could 
not save. Peace to the dead heroes. They will 
live forever in the hearts ot’ those who loved them. 
These beautiful lines by a South Carolina poet, 
find an echo in every Southern heart : 

“ Sainted souls, dead, peerless heroes! 

Till the South forgets her wrongs, 

Till we greet ye rising glorious 
From your tombs, redeemed and strong; 

Till the last torn Southern heart-string 
Shall have snapped beneath its load, 

And a weary, wasted people, 

Find eternal rest with God — 

Ye shall live, O, matchless warriors! 

Dauntless champions of the truth! 

Ye shall live, O, deathless martyrs ! 

Crowned immortal, in your youth! 

Live upon the lips of children. 

Live in manhood’s deepest prime, 

In the high, pure heart of woman, 

Fadeless in your deeds sublime.” 


—[Errol. 


120 


DOUGLAS; TENDER AND TRUE. 


CHAPTER IX, 



'OUR years had passed, the sun of the South 


had set in blood. The stars and bars 


drooped to wave no more, and a voice of woe 
went up from a captive, and a broken-hearted 
people. 

Among the vanquished who returned home as 
a paroled prisoner of war, was Col. Dacre. His 
beautiful home in Mississippi destroyed, his 
slaves free, himself crippled in body and broken 
in health. He hastened on to Texas to meet the 
little girl who so yearned for his coming. 

Dorrance had reached home and had received a 
full share of petting.. 

“ I am going to finish learning my trade, that 
of civil engineer,’ ’ he had said to the girl (no 
longer a child) who welcomed him. 

“ Then, Muriel,” and the handsome face 


DOUGLAS; TENDER AND TRUE. 


121 


flushed, the youthful voice trembled : “ May I 

make a home that you will share some day?” 

A startled look came into the sweet eyes, and 
distress on the fair face. 

“ Oh ! Muriel, I have loved you all your life, 
do not say me nay, tell me that you will be my 
wife?” 

“ Oh ! Dorrance, brother, I do not love you 
that way.” 

“ In time you may learn to care for me, I will 
devote the best years of my life to win your 
love. Do not be cruel, and break my heart by 
refusing me,” he cried. 

“ Dorrance, I will ever love you as a brother, 
and you must try to care for me only as for your 
little sister.” She was crying now. 

“ Oh ! tender heart,” he cried, “I am not half 
worthy of those tears. Do not cry. I will try to 
live it down.” His voice so hoarse with grief 
caused her to look up, then the white agony on 
her lover's face gave her a sharper pain than in 
her girlhood she had ever known. 

“ Oh ! Dorrance, dear brother, do not take it 
that way, my heart will break.” 


122 


DOUGLAS; TENDER AND TRUE. 


“ I will be all right when I get far away, yet, 
for the sake of the love you will not give, oh, 
ray dear, if ever you need help or a friend will 
you call on me?” 

“ Yes, indeed I will, and you will not be 
very angry with me?” 

“ Not angry, never that, yet, my dear, I am 
most wretched and unhappy.” 

She comforted him in a sweet, childish way 
inexpressibly soothing. Before another sunset 
he was far on his way to a Northern city. 

A letter to Mrs. Boyce had come from Col. 
Dacre asking her to rent a small house in some 
pretty and healthy locality, on the outskirt of the 
town. He sent money with which to haye it fur- 
nished, and a neat cottage was in readiness for 
the master. When he came how joyous was the 
meeting. 

“ Papa, my own papa.” 

“My little Muriel,” was all that either one 
could say. 

The girl found him so changed, expect for the 
sweet eyes. “ I must get you stout and well, you 
need rest, dear papa.” 


DOUGLAS; TENDER AND TRUE. 


123 


He found her small and fragile, yet so much 
stouter than he had ever hoped, that his heart 
throbbed with gladness. They moved to the 
little home. Very soon he was tryingto get em- 
ployment. 

Left alone with the negress, the young girl 
said to her: 

“ Mammy, it is only right that you should know 
that you are free, to do as you please, to come 
and go at your own will, to leave us whenever 
you care to go, my dear old mammy,” then the 
pretty head bent low, and sobs shook the delicate 
frame. 

“ Why, honey, what you mean? ” the stout old 
arms were around the little form, the golden 
head was pillowed where it so often had rested, 
on that faithful bosom, the dark hand tenderly 
caressed the silken curls. “ Free to come and 
go, you say, chile, ain’t your ole mammy always 
been free? bless your soul, honey, your mammy 
don’t want no Yankee freeing her; no, ain’t I 
always had plenty to eat and wear, and young mas- 
ter often gave me money; so right here I will stay 
to take care of my baby, and to wait on master.” 


124 


DOUGLAS; TENDER AND TRUE. 


“It is not the work, dear mammy,” a little 
hand went up tenderly to the kind old face, 
“although I do not know how we would ever 
manage without you. It is that I would miss your 
petting, your love, your care for me. I will try 
to be so much help to you.” 

“ Don’t talk about help, honey. Why, who 
makes my dresses, and caps and aprons, who, but 
my baby? An’ I will never leavS you, chile.” 

“ That is sweet news, it makes my heart light 
and happy.” Yet, a thought of Dorrance would 
banish happiness. 

They had taken a tender leave of Mrs. Boyce. 
She had seen them installed in the cottage. 
Clasping the hand of the old nurse, then 
kissing Muriel’s sweet face, she had said to the 
latter, “ Child, the old home will be lost without 
you.” 

And in a lower tone to the old nurse, “If 
she ever gets sick, mammy, or in any need yod 
must let me know.” 

“ ’Deed I will, honey, and when you want help 
let mammy know, my arms will be stout and 
strong for years to come.” 


DOUGLAS ; TENDER AND TRUE. 


125 


Mrs. Boyce had left a package for Mu- 
riel. On opening it, she found books and maga- 
zines, reading for many a day, and there were 
aprons for the nurse. A smile brightened the 
child’s face as she thought of the little surprise 
she had left for the kind friend, who had so glad- 
dened her young life, and had given her a home, 
and love, during those long months. 

Tears dimmed Mrs. Boyce’s soft eyes, when 
she found and unrolled the parcel. There 
was what she had long wanted. A large, lovely 
shawl of finest zephyr, and in crochet, the work 
of Muriel’s hand, while the great, white vases on 
the mantel-piece were the old servant’s gift, and 
a large easy chair was from the Colonel, and 
there for her feet to rest upon was a costly rug 
from Dorrance. 

Life passed quietly and pleasantly at the cot- 
tage, the going out and coming in of the father 
always full of interest to Muriel. Her light 
wicker chair in the front porch was her favorite 
resting-place, the vines of white clematis and 
honeysuckle made a pretty shade, the whir and 
buz' of the tiny humming birds made sweetest 


126 


DOUGLAS; TENDER AND TRUE. 


music. She had retained her childish love for all 
things beautiful, the soft work would often slip 
from her hands, the pretty head would droop 
against the crimson cushion, and the little hands 
fold themselves listlessly in her lap, as the day- 
dream would turn to the dear, dead mother, for 
birds and flowers ever whispered of that fond 
mother. A form in the distance, the sad thoughts 
would be checked, and smiles be ready for the 
father’s welcome. One evening she said to him : 

“ Father, there is to be a lecture to-night, you 
must go. I want to hear all about it — then you 
can tell me and that will be even better than were 
I to hear it from the lecturer’s lips.” Turn- 
ing to the nurse, “ Can’t we find a dress-suit for 
him? Can’t we, mammy? ” 

“ Yes, honey,” soon she brought in a suit of 
dark gray cloth . 

“Was not she thoughtful, papa? this came 
from the old home.” 

<f Yes, mammy is always thoughtful,” he re- 
plied. 

The girl deftly sewed a button here, a stitch 
there, then, “ Why, it does not even need dust- 


DOUGLAS; TENDER AND TRUE. 


127 


ing, how nicely she has kept it ! Now papa, go 
and get ready. ” 

Drawing a small table near her chair, she took 
from the drawer a cloth of snowy damask, and 
spread it on the table ; the old nurse brought china, 
white and gold, of dainty make, tea urn, spoons 
and forks of solid silver, and lovely knives. 

“ Now, mammy, he is coming, bring the sup- 
per, please.” 

A dainty cut-glass vase filled with flowers 
adorned the center of the board. 

“ Is not the table pretty, father? ” as he came 
in. “We owe it all to nurse, she packed away 
and brought all these things.” 

“ Yes, darling, it is very pretty ; we owe much 
to that faithful soul, that old mammy of yours 
and mine,” words that were heard and valued by 
the good servant. Soon the steaming cakes, 
golden butter and fragrant tea, were placed before 
them. 

The supper over : “ Now you must go, darling, 
you look so nice in your suit of gray. Do you 
know, papa ” laying her face tenderly on his coat 
sleeve, “ the gray is my favorite color? ” 


128 


DOUGLAS ; TENDER AND TRUE. 


“ It is a color that brings sadness to my mind, 
dear child.” 

“ To mine also, but I love it best.” Taking a 
white rose and a scarlet flower from the vase, she 
pinned them to the lappel of his coat. “Now, 
you are ready, and will be the handsomest man 
there.” 

“ Ah ! Muriel, others will not look at me 
with my little daughter’s loving eyes. Good- 
night, baby; do not sit up for me.” Kissing 
her, he left the room. 

It was a crowded hall that he entered, yet he 
obtained a seat near the speaker’s stand. He 
wished to be enabled to hear clearly, for his little 
girl would question him closely. Then again the 
discourse might prove interesting, for the subject 
was to be of the vast resources of the South. 
The speaker had a powerful voice, at once sweet 
and clear, now in a voice that was more 
than touching in its flute-like sadness he 
portrayed the vanquished South, her battle- 
ments beaten down, her strongholds demolished, 
her land devastated, her children fatherless, her 
women homeless, her sacred places desecrated, 


* 


DOUGLAS; TENDER AND TRUE. 129 

her bravest hearts still in death, and for a cause 
they could not save. The sun seemed to be 
crimson with the blood drawn from many battle- 
fields, rich, warm, Southern blood, that had 
been drawn upward to enhance the lustre of the 
brightest of God’s luminaries. His voice trembled 
as he drew that saddest of all sad pictures, a 
nation trampled under the -iron heel of the 
oppressor, her tattered, blood-stained banner 
trailing in the dust, her chief a captive. Yet her 
people had by Lee’s decision grasped, across 
that bloody chasm, the foeman’s hand, and 
they must try to live in peace. The South, he 
said, Phoenix like, would arise from its ashes, 
the courage and endurance of her people would 
overcome all obstacles ; though bleeding and 
prostrate she* has vast resources and would give 
her children these. Then words of encourage- 
ment came from his eloquent lips. In love 
they could not, yet in peace they must strive to 
live. Looking down the vista of the future, he 
could see a march of glory for the South. His 
views were good, his logic sound. It was true 
that a horde of ignorant slaves had been turned 
9 


130 


DOUGLAS; TENDER AND TRUE. 


adrift, homeless and destitute but for their 
former owners, to beg or steal from an impover- 
ished people, his advice was to do away with 
negro help. Let the labor be white, the young 
men and boys must go to the anvil, the plow, 
or to any honest employment; let the girls 
assist their mothers in the housework, there 
would be plenty of time for parlor amuse- 
ments. Let the growing youth of both sexes 
help to build up a nation that would in its 
grandeur surpass the old South. Let her free 
herself, if it had to be done, slowly and by 
degrees, of the dark blot on the nation’s face — 
the negro race. To compass this he said, “ You 
must not depend on your former slaves to make 
your daily bread, your former servants to wait 
in your households. Put your shoulders to the 
wheel, and the day will be your own.” 

Col. Dacre was charmed with the speaker, yet 
before the discourse was half through, as for a 
jnoment his eyes left the lecturer’s face, they 
rested on the lovely face of a woman, a little 
distance from him. The vast hall, the large 
crowd, the eloquent speaker all faded from his 


DOUGLAS; TENDER AND TRUE. 131 

view. He saw only that beautiful face, those 
glorious eyes. He lived again in that bright, 
happy past, a mist swam before his vision. A 
hand on his shoulder. 

“ Why, Colonel Dacre, what is the matter? 
Your face is as the face of the dead. The dis- 
course was thrilling, yet I like the first part best, 
you see,” shrugging his shoulder lazily. “Iam 
not much of a working man ; don’t go in for 
that sort of thing.” 

44 Perhaps the lesson, that of hard work, would 
benefit you, Clyde.” The young man nodded 
lightly as he passed on. 

Col. Dacre reached the door- way, even as the 
lady paused for her escort to make some reply 
to an acquaintance. In a second the Colonel was 
at her side. 

44 Have you no word for me?” he said. 

A glance of cool unconcern, then, 44 Please 
let us pass?” was all she said, yet one dainty 
hand drew her silken drapery aside as though to 
touch him were contamination. The action, 
even more than the omission to reply to his ques- 
tion, stung him to the quick. 


132 


DOUGLAS; TENDER AND TRUE. 


“ Excuse me,” as he stepped aside, yet the 
hoarse voice, the sad, pale face told the dark 
eyes that so coolly scanned him how much he 
suffered, then with some gay remark to her 
attendant, she passed on. 

He went home, his heart tortured with the 
thought that while he remembered, she could for- 
get, and could so coolly pass him by. He loved 
her — he could not give her up, he would beg her 
to forgive, only to forgive him, and he must see 
her, if only once again. The next morning he arose 
early and tried to become free of the tired feeling 
and haggard look, yet the girl’s keen eyes noticed. 

“ Papa, de^r, was it such a tiresome thing after 
all? 1 will not tease you to go again.” 

“The discourse was pleasant, darling, yet it 
takes so little to fatigue me now.” 

“ Yes,” she said, “ I should have thought of 
that.” She would not let him talk. “ You can 
tell me some other time when you are rested, and 
not feeling badly.” Then she told of her own 
work, her lessons, and of mammy always so 
kind, — then: “You must not work too hard 
this morning, papa.” 


DOUGLAS; TENDER AND TRUE. 


133 


He came home early — an aching head, he told 
her, and was well content to rest in the easy 
chair in the balcony, she sitting near, a book 
open in her lap, some light crochet work in the 
dainty hands. 

A lady driving past got a glimpse of the picture, 
the fair, handsome man, the small, dainty girl, 
a glance at the golden hair, at the lovely face, 
sent the blood to her heart. “ Oh ! How exqui- 
site !” she murmured, “ That face is the image of 
my baby. ,, . For one wild moment she yearned 
to take the girl in her arms, to kiss her again 
and again for the dead baby’s sake. Then bitter 
thoughts came. “ No, she is his darling, she has 
his name, mine had no father’s love, no father’s 
name; like its mother it bore the mark of a most 
bitter wrong. How I hate myself for that ten- 
der thought of a moment since !” She tried to 
think of other things, yet the girl’s angelic face 
haunted her. More than once she murmured, “ So 
like my little baby.” Sleeping it was to dream 
of the delicate form in the wicker chair, of the 
fair, sweet face and the golden hair — and, — 
yes, of the handsome man. 


134 


DOUGLAS ; TENDER AND TRUE. 


The next evening even as she entered the par- 
lor a gentleman was announced. Her face grew 
pale, as bowing coldly she asked him to be 
seated. 

“ Cecile, after all these years have you no 
word of welcome, not one smile for me?” he 
said. 

“ Pardon me,” she replied, “ if I say that you 
are presumptuous.” 

“ Oh ! for the sake of the old times, darling, 
do not be unkind to me. I have come to ask 
you to forgive me?” 

“ You,” a world of scorn in the voice, “ after 
having wronged me so bitterly and cruelly — 
you dare to come and ask to be forgiven. Give 
me back my fresh, young, loving heart, give me 
back my peaceful, quiet girlhood, give me my 
untarnished honor, or give my baby in its 
unhonored, unmarked grave, a father’s name — 
then ask me to forgive you? ” 

“I did not know,” as a flush went over his 
face, and his voice grew full of tenderness, “I 
did not know of our little one.” 

“Do not speak of it,” she cried, “though 


DOUGLAS; TENDER AND TRUE. 


135 


dishonored and unnamed it was mine, all mine.” 

“Not dishonored, Cecile, not unnamed. It 
has all right to my name, for you were, you 
are, legally my wife.” 

“ What of that other wife? ” she said. 

“ We had been divorced,” a dusky hue going 
over his face. 

“ You knew that I did not believe in second 
marriage, and that the word divorce was full of 
horror to me, and knowing this you could basely 
deceive me!” 

“ Oh ! love, can you not forgive me, if only for 
the sake of the great love I feel for you ? Just one 
word of forgiveness, one handclasp is all I ask.” 

“Do not come nearer,” the words, the quick 
gesture of her hand as though to ward off a 
blow, stung his pride. 

“ How dared you to wear my favorite flower 
the other night? ” 

“ I do not know,” he said, “ my little daughter 
pinned the flowers there. I did not notice what 
they were ; now let me thank you for her sake, 
for the life you saved yonder in Virginia? And 
yet, why did not you let me die? I know,” 


136 DOUGLAS; TENDER AND TRUE. 

he went on, “ that I did a great wrong; it ruined 
your life, and blasted my own, the shadow of it 
has never left my heart, and has filled my days 
with gloom. Your forgiveness would make the 
future less hard to bear.” 

“ Had you any pity,” she said, “ for me, or 
for that other woman? ” 

“ I had but little for her, yet she forgave 
me.” 

“No, you never deliberately offered her a 
deadly insult. I was poor, a teacher and unpro- 
tected — and open to insult. Now, how differ- 
ent, — rich in all this world’s goods, land, houses, 
money, vast wealth all mine. I am worthy of 
all honor; you can bow low to ask my pardon, I 
am so much more worthy of respect, now that I 
shine in silk and jewels than I was in those other 
days. If in need I will aid your child and you — 
for her sake.” 

The sentence was not finished. 

“ Do you know that you are offering me an 
insult? My Muriel has no claim on you; I, 
though a cripple and homeless, do not ask or 
wish your charity. Believe me, until now I had 


DOUGLAS ; TENDER AND TRUE. 


137 


never noticed your silks or jewels. I had only 
seen your face. I knew not of your wealth, have 
never heard your name since I called you by it, 
in those dear days of long ago, yet, had I known, 
still I would have asked for your forgiveness — 
and now — ” 

“ Now,” she said, “ those wretched years and 
a little grave will ever lay between us.” 

“ I will never trouble you again, you have said 
a baby’s,” — his voice grew broken — “my 
baby’s, grave, lay between us, I reply that your 
wealth is a barrier that I will ne\^r try to cross.” 
“ A bottomless gulf,” he said, “ is between 
us, your hand, the little hand that I love, has 
pointed it out to me. Before I go away, — for 
we will be, by your own wish, strangers for- 
ever — will you tell me something of our 
child?” 

“ Yes, I will tell you the love for that little 
helpless being drove every other feeling from 
my heart, even my hatred for you was forgotten.” 

“ Then you could hate me; oh, Cecile ! ” 

“ Yes, and most bitterly; I was willing to live 
for my baby, to raise it, to teach it to become, 


138 


DOUGLAS; TENDER AND TRUE. 


what you never were — a good man ; yet cruel 
fate snatched it from me. Helpless, but for one 
kind friend, lonely, most desolate, with a bleed- 
ing heart, could I be blamed if I cursed you? 
Oh ! the unhappiness I felt when my darling’s 
cries of mortal agony pierced my stricken heart, 
and I knew that no hand could save. For 
days and nights I watched by that little form 
and prayed, yet, my all, my little one was taken 
from me.” 

The white agony of the lovely face unmanned 
him; oh, how he longed to take her in his arms, 
to kiss those tears away, to seek to give her 
comfort. 

“ I thought,” she continued, “ that the darkest 
day of my poor young life, was the day that the \ 
proud, cold woman came and stabbed me with 
those cruel words ; they ring in my ears yet, but, 
oh, the hour that my baby, my sweet golden- 
haired boy, was taken, that was filled with the 
bitterness of death for me. It was the one drop 
needed to make my cup of bitterness run over. 
Why force me to live again those dreadful days — 
those nights of anguish to which came that most 


DOUGLAS; TENDER AND TRUE. 


139 


woeful ending, my baby in his coffin, my darling 
in his narrow, lonely grave? ” Standing one hand 
clasping the back of a chair, her slender, delicate 
frame trembled as an aspen. Looking upon her 
agony his tears fell thick and fast. 

“ Oh ! If I could comfort you,” he said, “ yet, 
I hold no place in the tender heart that once was 
mine, all mine. I sinned, and deeply, yet oh, 
my wife, Cecile, I, your erring husband, I too 
have suffered. You refuse me pardon. It was 
all I asked. Now I go from you a stranger for- 
evermore.” 

Turning with unsteady steps, as a drunken 
man, he staggered — blindly groping his way 
from the room, out in the open air he went — 
never heeding the busy crowds, only to get 
away, to be alone. He stopped not until he 
reached the confines of the town. The cool air 
fanned his brow, and soothed the fever burning 
there. It was then that he thought of Muriel 
and how distressed she would become and turning 
his steps he sought the little cottage. He only 
kissed her, saying that he was tired and would 
go to his room. 


140 


DOUGLAS; TENDER AND TRUE. 


He would go far away, he wanted no woman's 
charity. She should never know how poor, how 
much in need he really was, she might think that 
it was for her great wealth he had sought a 
reconciliation. He was a man quick to act when 
once a resolution was taken, so on the morrow he 
would dispose of their few household goods, 
which was accomplished and before the sunset of 
another day they were speeding fast as the iron 
horse could carry them to another city. Here 
he found a house suitable in every respect. It also 
was in the suburbs, for himself he cared not, yet 
Muriel must have fresh air. 

He succeeded in obtaining a small school, yet the 
walk was a long one, and at times the old wound 
gave him trouble, causing him to limp fearfully. 
He grew thin and pale. As the winter came on the 
old servant became anxious and begged him to 
give up the school. 

“ Don’t bother about me, mammy, when the 
spring comes I will be all right,” was the answer 
he always gave. 

The old negress would shake her head while 
her mind would be filled with troubled thoughts. 


DOUGLAS; TENDER AND TRUE. 


141 


“ Something troubles master,” she would whisper 
to herself. She was too loyal to let him know by 
look or action that she felt he had a secret. 

Muriel too grew pale, a wistful look came to the 
dark eyes, the small fingers grew more fragile as 
they plied the ivory needles in and out of the 
fleecy zephyr, for the fancy articles so beautifully 
made always found ready and generous pur- 
chasers. This money went a long way toward 
supplying the family larder. Her father knew 
naught of this or his pride would, at once, have 
been in arms. Her lessons were never neglected ; 
he always found time to hear her recitations. 
Then they read aloud the histories of differ- 
ent Countries, to each other. He being a fine 
scholar was enabled to teach the young girl 
many things. Her mind grasped after knowl- 
edge and often the treasures of her father’s 
learning were laid open to her view, yet the child 
led a lonely life, so lonely, those five days of 
every week in which her father was busy with his 
school duties, longing for something she knew not 
what, feeling that in her life wa3 something lack- 
ing. Cut off, by her affliction, from all pleasures 


142 


DOUGLAS ; TENDER AND TRUE. 


indulged in by those of her own age, yet never a 
murmur from the sweet young lips. Perhaps at 
times when girls cantered gaily past taking early 
morning rides — or more often went past tak- 
ing those pleasant evening walks, the tender 
heart would grow full of longing for one walk — 
just one little walk in the sweet dusk of the 
evening time, the dark eyes would follow the 
girlish forms — an unconscious sigh would come 
from the gentle heart, then, “ Oh ! what a wicked 
girl I am ! to give way thus, and life holds so 
much that is dear for me. I am most fortunate 
even though,” and here another sigh, “I am 
lame. So many girls were made fatherless, I 
feel so sorry for them, and my own papa was 
spared to me. God has been good. He is a 
loving Father, and will not put a heavier cross 
upon our shoulders than we can bear, and I will 
not — will not murmur at my cross.” She had 
tried and could walk with help, yet the exertion 
gave her headache for days to come, so after a 
few trials that were full of pain she gave up, and 
the long, weary days were spent in the chair on 
the balcony, or on a lounge in one of the rooms. 


DOUGLAS; TENDER AND TRUE. 


143 


She was now sixteen years of age, yet small in 
size as a girl of twelve, delicate features, clear, 
lovely complexion. The father’s lovely hair 
and sweet tender eyes were hers, and the soul 
shining through those eyes was pure as 
the day God sent it to earth to inhabit her little 
form. How could it be otherwise? her only 
teachers were those who loved her — the com- 
panions of her girlhood were those of her child- 
hood, birds and flowers. One of the few pleasures 
of her life was a letter from Dorrance Vane, and 
now came one that was full of interest. In it he 
said, “ I am going to give you a sister, like you 
she has golden hair, and dark earnest eyes. It 
was this likeness to you that drew me to her, and, 
Muriel dear, you will love her as a sister for 
her own sweet sake and for mine?” Then he 
spoke of other things ; he begged that she would 
not fail to call on him, her brother, if ever 
in any need or trouble. Such a tender, lov- 
ing, boyish letter, — then as she thought that 
this dear one had drifted from her life, a sad- 
ness came over her, and great sobs shook her 
frame. 


144 


DOUGLAS; TENDER AND TRUE. 


“ What is the matter with my little girl? ” as 
the father’s hand smoothed her hair. 

“ Dorrance’s letter makes me a little sad, that 
is all, papa.” 

“Yet, darling, you knew weeks ago that he 
was to be married.” 

“It is not that, papa, it only seems that he is 
drifting away from us, as we have drifted away 
from all the world, yet, while I have you, papa, 
I am rich indeed.” 

“ That is my darling, now, I want those eyes 
to look less sad. See what father has for his 
little housekeeper.” 

“ Books ! oh, papa. How good you are to me ! 
I have wanted the ‘ St. Elmo,’ and this darling 
‘ Surry,’ ” stopping to kiss him again and again. 
“ And now hey are mine, my very own.” 

No matter how weary or listless, her eyes ever 
brightened at her father’s coming. It was touch- 
ing to witness her tenderness for him. She felt 
that there was a shadow over his life, which her 
frail hand could never dispel, some secret sorrow 
that no love of hers could ever soothe. The 
child pitied, even while she idolized the dear 


DOUGLAS; TENDER AND TRUE. 


145 


father who was all the world to her. Often she 
chatted in her quaint, pretty way of the old times, 
of the mother she had so fondly loved, then of 
the war days, of the soldiers in blue who had 
been her friends, of Dorrance, then of the kind 
“Auntie Boyce” with whom she had found a 
home, and of the strange lady she had never 
seen, “ and, papa, she was so lonely and so sad, 
her baby died when it was three months old, a 
golden-haired baby boy. Auntie said it had my 
face, and eyes and hair. I seemed to love it, 
father, and always put flowers on its little grave, 
such a tiny mound that had not either stone or 
name.” 

“ What did they call the child? ” he asked. 

“ They called it Godfrey. The name touched 
my heart, papa.” 

The child did not see the pallor that crept 
over his face, as he bent lower over the book 
upon his knee. 

A few days after this he went away, and was 
absent for several days. Both Muriel and the 
old servant were glad to see him go, for they 
hoped that the change might do him good. As 

xo 


146 


DOUGLAS ; TENDER AND TRUE. 


the cold, dreary days of winter set in he con- 
tracted a cough ; the physician told him that he 
must stay indoors, yet no matter how bad the 
weather, early and late he went to and from the 
school-house. 



DOUGLAS; TENDER AND TRUE. 


147 


CHAPTER X. 


OD have mercy on me. I have been cruel 
to him,” she cried, as he left the house. 
44 4 Tender heart,’ he called me, and oh how hard 
was my heart to him ; how bitter and unfeeling 
were my words, and the taunt about my wealth; 
how I despise myself for that; oh, it hurt him 
so. I knew the cruel words were false ; oh, my 
lost love, my dear lost love,” she cried. The 
memory of the anguish on his face as he bade 
her farewell would haunt her until the day 
she died. Then she wept such tears as we 
weep over the coffined faces of our dear 
dead. She went to her room and for weeks 
was too ill to leave her bed. When she 
did get up her strength came slowly back. 4 4 1 
will go to him and beg forgiveness for those 
cruel words? ” She drove to the little cottage, a 
feeling of shyness coming over her, a longing to 
see him, to hear his voice once again ; when she 


148 


DOUGLAS; TENDER AND TRUE. 


drew up at the gate, it was to find the house 
closed, the tenants gone — none knew whither. 
An icy hand clutched at her heart-strings — gone, 
and she had wronged him so! gone, and he in ill 
health, in poverty and with the care of that 
beautiful child, and no friend except the faithful 
old negress ! In vain she tried to trace them. 
She went hither and thither as though to seek 
amusement, all for the same vain quest, and 
always the same result. A weary look came to 
the lovely face, unshed tears dimmed the lustre 
of the sweet, dark eyes — she longed to find 
and give comfort, where comfort was sadly 
needed. Always the picture of a sad face and 
eyes, beautiful eyes full of fond entreaty were 
before her, the words, “ My wife, forgive your 
erring husband,” sounded ever in her ears, and 
she had steeled her heart against him and she 
loved him so ; oh, the memory of all those bitter 
words. Could she have said them and to him? 

Through the winter and on into the spring 
went on her dreary quest — yet always in vain. 
She began to feel that he was lost to her forever. 
Away a week, returning home she went to 


DOUGLAS; TENDER AND TRUE. 


149 


the silent graveyard. What caused the blood to 
rush to her heart? then the rush as of many 
waters filled her ears, while a feeling of faintness 
came over her. Then she aroused herself and 
tottered on. Yes, there over the tiny mound was 
a dainty shaft of pure white marble, at the base a 
lamb ; on the top of the shaft a white dove with 
outstretched wings. She saw it all through a 
mist of tears, soft, womanly tears — then read 
the words, “To the memory of Godfrey Dacre, 
infant son of Cecile Dacre and Godfrey Dacre,’ ’ 
then, “Suffer little children to come unto me, and 
forbid them not, for of such are the kingdom of 
heaven.” There too was a lovely vase of granite 
filled with pure white flowers. She knew whose 
was the hand that had placed the shaft. Kneeling 
there, her head against the cold, white stone, she 
prayed God to forgive and to bless him, the 
father who had given to his child an honored 
name. No blot rested on her darling now. She 
kissed the name deep graven in the marble. 
She had said she might forgive him when he 
gave her dead child his name, and he had done 
so. Now, the grave no longer between, her wealth 


150 


DOUGLAS ; TENDER AND TRUE. 


was a barrier he had said he would never try to 
cross. She knew his pride, he would never seek 
her; she was justly punished, yet she loved him 
so. 

4 4 He asked me to tell him of our child. It 
was his right, yet I closed my heart against that 
dear request, and now — ” 

Weeks later she accepted an invitation to 
attend a wedding in a distant city. She would 
go, one place was the same as another, she 
could find neither peace or rest. She arrived 
a most welcome guest. The day was near 
at hand, the bridal gifts were coming in, the 
lovely girl was most content, yet one gift gave 
her exquisite pleasure. 

44 Dear, what is the gift that gives you so 
much pleasure?” 

44 Oh ! dear friend, it is not so much the loveli- 
ness of the gift as the sweet goodness of the 
giver that gives me happiness, yet is it not a 
lovely marriage present?” shaking the white 
44 sea foam,” knit of the purest silk. 

44 1 have never seen anything of the kind one 
half so beautiful as this, and what a world of 


DOUGLAS; TENDER AND TRUE. 


151 


trouble it must have been. How you will prize 
it. Here is the name of the one who sent it.” 

a Yes, it is the work of dear little Muriel 
Dacre’s dainty hands.” Turning away to arrange 
other gifts on a table near at hand she did not 
see the start of surprise, the look of joy that 
radiated the sad face, or the wondrous tender- 
ness of the soft, dark eyes. She had read the 
name, “ Muriel Darce, 114 Elm Avenue.” The 
number and avenue she would not forget. 

The young girl ran gaily on, “I value the 
‘ foam 9 above all my other gifts ; the giver is so 
like a sweet, white flower, the most angelic face, 
and a heart as good as gold. She is a cripple, 
poor, too, they are ; the father — well, he is the 
saddest man I ever saw ; I think that a grave 
must have thrown its shadow over his life, yet, 
what a splendid man he must have been ! ” 

“You are acquainted with him, then? ” 

“ Yes, only slightly, he seems to avoid society. 
His daughter is a child, not a 4 grown up ’ young 
lady by any means, such a sweet, winsome little 
thing, I feel like kissing her sweet face whenever 
I see it. And to think that she would devote so 


152 


DOUGLAS ; TENDER AND TRUE . 


many of her spare moments to give me pleasure. 
I wished her to come to see me married, yet she 
insisted that it would be impossible, so I ceased 
to urge. Her health is far from being good. 
When we get settled, I will claim her for a long, 
long visit.” 

A few moments later her guest said, “ As 
you are quite busy, I will go for a quiet 
walk.” 

“Very well, yet do not go too far, you are 
not stout enough for a long walk, and we want 
you to be quite rested for the ‘ occasion. ’ ” 

“ I will not go very far. Do not be uneasy 
about me.” 

No, it was not very far, only to the outskirt of 
the town, yet had it been miles she would not have 
felt fatigue. All eagerness had taken possession 
of her, the lovely eyes wore a soft brightness 
new to them. A glow was on the sweet, pale 
face. Only to see him, to be near him, to hear 
his voice again — as she hastened on. Then 
came a thought that chilled her heart, there was 
the barrier he would never try to cross, her 
wealth, even could he forget; ah, she knew his 


DOUGLAS ; TENDER AND TRUE. 


153 


loving heart had long since forgiven the cruel 
taunt. Still, his pride was great, and her heart 
grew sick as she felt that perhaps they were, as 
he had said, seperated forevermore. Yet, a glad 
look coming to her face, “ I had almost forgot- 
ten, he cannot undo that. He will grant me his 
pardon for those cruel words, and that will make 
me more content.” She passed bright-eyed, 
happy children, — they were going home from 
school. She had obtained directions, and knew 
where the school-house was. She could not 
meet him at home before the wondering eyes of 
his daughter. Reaching the school-house, pass- 
ing an open window she glanced in ; yes, there 
he sat solitary and alone, looking so feeble and 
broken — sitting by a table on which his arms 
were folded, his head resting in a sad, weary 
fashion on his arms, his side face visible. Her 
heart contracted with pain to see how thin and 
ill he looked. In the happy days of their love 
her heart had never gone out so tenderly to him 
as now. 

Stepping lightly in the doorway, she went with 
soft footfalls to his side. On the table was a 


154 


DOUGLAS ; TENDER AND TRUE. 


little glove and a faded flower. Her hand went 
caressingly to his head. 

“ Godfrey, I have come to ask forgiveness for 
those cruel words. Look up and say that you 
forgive me.” 

The little hand was taken in his own, a long, 
lingering kiss imprinted on its white surface, 
then he arose, and stood before her. Then she 
noticed how weak he really was, 

“ I have nothing for which to forgive you,” 
he said, the tones so hoarse — a hue as of death 
on his face. “ It was I who needed forgiveness, 
you who refused me the only comfort I could 
ask.” 

“I am ashamed, Godfrey, of that cruel taunt 
about my wealth.” 

“ I did not know about your wealth until you 
told me, so those words could scarcely hurt me. 
Yet, you were not far wrong, for the social gulf 
is the boundary line between us.” 

“ Godfrey, unless you will it so, there shall be 
no barrier, no boundary line between us.” 

“ It cannot be removed,” he said. 

“If you think so why keep you these?” 


DOUGLAS; TENDER AND TRUE. 


155 


pointing to the faded glove and withered flower. 

“It is your glove, lost the day you left me, 
the flower, the one you pinned to my coat, that 
last act of love you ever did for me. These have 
been my dearest treasures.” 

“ Godfrey,” a little hand was on his arm, “ I 
thank you for that name, those words you put 
over my baby’s grave.” 

“ It was a pleasant duty,” he said, “ for he is 
my son.” 

“Godfrey;” a long pause. “If I were 
poor, if it were not for my wealth would you 
care for me? ” 

“Can you ask me that?” a bitter laugh es 
caped his lips, “ and it was you who said that in 
your poverty, I insulted and knew only how to 
honor you when those riches came? ” 

“Man-like, you cherish bitter things that, 
woman-like, I, when angry, brought against 
you. I asked pardon for those cruel words. 
And this is to be our farewell? ” 

“ Yes,” was his reply. 

“ Do not think,” she said, pride coming to her 
aid, “that I came to this place in quest of 


156 


DOUGLAS; TENDER AND TRUE. 


you ; I am here to attend the wedding of a friend, 
and anticipate a happy time. I heard, by the 
merest accident that you were here, and sought 
you only to ask forgiveness for what I had 
said.” 

“I am not worth all this consideration,” he 
replied — the tone so hard and bitter — “I only 
a crippled, broken down old soldier, without 
home, friends, no tie except my little girl.” 

“You must not say that, it hurts me. You 
are worthy all consideration, all respect, and you 
are far better off than I. You have a child to 
love, while I am without a tie, my life compassed 
by the coniines of a little grave,” one moment 
her hand rested lightly on his arm. 

“ Godfrey, will not you say good-bye? ” 

“ I would ask to escort you home, yet fustian 
and silk do not suit.” 

“ I did not say it.” Even as she turned away, 
he bent his head in reverence as though a saint 
were passing from his view. She went out as 
quietly as she came — then he threw himself in 
the chair, his face upon the table, great sobs 
shook his frame. “I could not have stood it 


DOUGLAS ; TENDER AND T*UE. 


157 


much longer ; oh, how my arms ached to hold 
her, how my heart cried out, and yet, I said 
those bitter words to my darling, my life’s best 
love. I would not carry my poverty to any 
woman, and there is my Muriel. ” The thought 
of the child watching for him, hurried his foot- 
steps homeward. 

Cecile went out, her brain on fire, her heart 
more wretched than it had ever been. She 
knew that she had left him alone in his pride 
and unhappiness, the dearest love of her 
heart, dearer in his loneliness and poverty 
than even in the days of her happy, girlish love, 
and he was her idol then, yet now she must go 
on forever alone. She could not sue to him ; 
knowing his pride, she felt it would be useless. 
She would go home, no scenes of gayety, no 
amusement for her aching heart. She would 
only be the “ skeleton ” at the bridal feast, and 
she would not stay. Passing a store, she entered 
and bought an ulster. The train was due. She 
had only time for a line to her young friend, 
then hastened to the station. Purchasing a 
ticket, she was soon en route for home. 


158 


DOUGLAS; TENDER AND TRUE. 


Colonel Dacre was too ill for days to leave his 
room. When able to sit up Muriel brought 
to him a large legal looking document. “It is 
addressed to me, papa, is not that odd? My 
fortune, I expect/ ’ 

“ When did you get it? ” 

“ It came the evening that you were taken 
sick. I would not trouble you with it then, 
and would not even peep into it until you 
were better; now, I will admit that I am just a 
little curious about it, darling,” stroking his soft 
hair. 

He opened it. “ Why, child, it should have 
reached us weeks ago.” 

“ Ye3, papa, and by the different postmarks 
on the envelope it must have wandered to many 
places before it reached me.” 

More pale he could not become. While he 
read his eyes grew moist. It was all he could 
do to keep from breaking down then and there. 

“ What is it, father? Do not grieve.” 

“ Muriel, it is your fortune, child,” his 
voice so full of pain that the girl felt strangely 
troubled. 


DOUGLAS; TENDER AND TRUE. 


159 


“ If it is something, even a fortune, that hurts 
you so, I do not want it.” 

“ This was to have reached you months 
ago.” Then he read aloud the contents. An un- 
known lady friend had willed to the child half of 
her own large fortune, making her one of the 
wealthiest heiresses in the South. Muriel’s face 
grew pale as she said, “ Papa, darling, tell me 
all about it, then we will know what to do.” 

“ It will be to lay bare a chapter of my life, 
my darling, in which you never had a part; oh, 
little one, do not harden that tender heart toward 
me, I think were you to do so it would kill me; 
my child, 3it in tender judgment, if you can, 
against your most unhappy father.” 

Then he told, the little hand clasping his own, 
of all from his first meeting Cecile at the village 
church — until the day she had left him. The 
little hand never once relaxed its firm yet gentle 
pressure. 

“ You should have told her all, father, before 
you married her.” 

“ Yes, child, I am most bitterly punished for 
that deception.” Then he told in part, of his 


160 


DOUGLAS ; TENDER AND TRUE. 


visit to her — of her coming to him, and of the 
result. “ You poor, unhappy father, a life-time is 
not long enough for such as this. Now, darling, 
I am going to arrange everything for you. First 
we will not refuse this fortune, not just now; 
next you shall go and bring her here, right here 
to our own home, I will give her a glad welcome, 
When will you be well enough to go, for I yearn 
to see her?” 

A bright, happy light came to the weary eyes, 
a flush to the haggard face. 

“ Ah ! I see you want to get off at once, well, 
you must have a nice rest until tea time, then you 
shall go.” 

He took the sweet face between his hands, “ I 
will never forget that not one unkind word have 
you said to me.” 

“ And I have not had one unkind thought, 
darling, not one. Once I heard you tell mamma 
something. I heard her bless you, and wish that 
sometime you might be happy. I could never 
grasp the full meaning of it all, yet dear, I knew 
that there was something lacking in your life. I, 
too, your little daughter, wish you to be happy, 


DOUGLAS; TENDER AND TRUE. 


161 


and will love the one who helps to make you 
your own bright self again.” 

The contemplated trip seemed to give new vigor 
to his frame. When the hour came for him to go 
he seemed like the Godfrey Dacre of former 
years. “ Good-bye, my blessing,” kissing again 
and again the pretty face. 

“ Have I been a blessing to you, papa?” 

“ Can you ask it, sweet? Yes, and a precious 
comfort always.” 

“You must go, dear, and bring my mother 
home.” 

Yet when he had gone, the tender heart gave 
way. “ Dor ranee has gone from out our lives, 
and now, papa will never need me any more; 
yet I must not be selfish, poor father, his 
trouble has been heavy, he called me his bless- 
ing; oh, if she will only love me.” She 
passed a sleepless night, was so pale and weak 
when morning came that the old nurse made her 
sit in the balcony, where the sweet breeze came. 
Sitting there in an attitude of unconscious grace, 
the small hands idly toying with some flowers in 
her lap, the pretty head against the crimson 

11 


162 


DOUGLAS; TENDER AND TRUE. 


cushion, the sweet face sad and weary, a far 
away look in the dark eyes. She had been 
thinking of Dorrance, then her thoughts went 
back to the old plantation life, to the Union sol- 
diers, and lingered with the young Lieutenant. 

“ Douglas, tender and true,” she murmured. 
Even as the words crossed her lips, a shadow fell 
across the sunlight at her feet. Looking up 
quickly it was to see a man beside her. A flush 
went over the lovely face, as bending over her he 
took in his own one little hand. 

“ Muriel, do you remember me? ” 

“ Mr. Grant, I am glad to see you. I never 
forget my friends.” 

Taking a seat near her, he said, “ Do not 
call me Mr. Grant. Please say Douglas, as of 
old.” 

“You were a boy then, and I a child.” 

“ I am almost as much a boy now, and you 
are nearly as small as you were then, I could 
carry you quite as easily. So it will be Douglas. 
Will it not?” 

“I have always thought of you;” here a 
pause. 


DOUGLAS; TENDER AND TRUE. 


163 


“ How have you thought of me? Please tell 
me?” 

“ As Douglas, tender and true,” her face 
became rosy as she called his name. 

He thought that never was a lovelier picture 
than this as he watched the sweet color come and 
go on that fair face. He told in his grave way 
of things that had transpired, of how times had 
served him. 

“ Now,” she said, I have never been able to 
thank you for your kindness to papa. I wish 
I could find words to thank you.” Quickly she 
bent over and for a moment her lips rested 
on the firm white hand, as it rested on the 
arm of her chair. He drew a quick, hard breath. 
“Child, no favor that I could ever have done 
were worth that kiss,” a dusky red was on his 
handsome face, he took one of the little hands 
and held clasped closely in his own. 

“You must tell me of that handsome boy, of 
Dor ranee? ” 

“His history is a romance in a few words. 
He is married, is well and happy.” The lovely 
eyes looked full into his own, no tremor in the 


164 


DOUGLAS; TENDER AND TRUE. 


clear, sweet voice. Dorrance had never entered 
Jier young heart, a world of content filled his own 
as she went on to tell of her boy friend and his 
life in that distant Northern city. After a pause, 
she said, in her sweet, shy way: 

“ You cannot imagine what a happy little girl 
I was when that paper came.” 

“ Did you know who sent it? ” 

“ I liked to think that it came from you.” 
Her words gave him pleasure. 

A flush of pleasure came over his face. 
“ Neither can you imagine what a happy fellow I 
was in being able to serve your father, when I 
saw the glint of his golden hair, and then his 
face, I knew he was my — your father.” 

“ You saved his life; if I could run about I 
would like to serve you always.” 

The childish words, all the sweetness expressed 
in them touched the young man’s heart. 

s( Serve me, ah, little one, that should never 
be,” and again the flush burned his face from 
brow to lips. 

“ You must dine with me. Don’t you remem- 
ber you used to dine with me sometimes? ” 


Douglas ; tender and true. 


165 


“Do I remember? Ah, yes, and those were 
pleasant dinings. Tell me, is mammy kind and 
good as in days of yore, for well do I know that 
she would never leave you? Who would? ” 

“ Yes, she pets me, as she has always done.” 
“ How is Nero? You see I do not forget any 
of your friends/ ’ 

“ Nero is quite well ; here he is,” as the dog came 
forward and looked up in the young man’s face. 

“ Nero, old fellow, do you know me? ” patting 
the dog’s head. The glad bark was answer 
enough. Then he crouched contentedly at the 
young man’s feet. Next the old servant came in 
and her rejoicing was great. 

“ Are you. glad to see me, mammy? ” 

“ Indeed, I is, Marse Douglas, and the chile 
won’t be so lonely now,” as she shook the 
proffered hand, then hastened away to try to 
prepare a nice dinner, for the young fellow held 
a warm place in her heart. His kindness to 
them in their hour of need had won her liking 
and respect, and when he saved Col. Dacre’s 
life then her love for him almost equaled the 
love she felt for the “ chile.” 


166 DOUGLAS; TENDER AND TRUE. 

After the two had dined, such a nice dining, 
he so tender, so quick to supply her every want, 
she so watchful to see that he did not neglect 
himself, they talked of many things, yet always 
going to the old times ; he telling of the soldiers 
who had loved her. Not one had she forgotten . 

“The nurse said that you are often lonely. 
Tell me, is that the truth? ” 

“ Never when papa is here, yet the days that 
he is away are always lonely, for then 1 am alone. 
Now he has gone to bring my mother home. 1 
do wonder what the change will bring for me?’* 
The wistful tone went to his heart. 

“Do not get sad about it. You know I am 
coming often to see you ; you shall not be lonely 
any more, if I can help it.” After a short pause. 
“ May I come again this afternoon ?,” 

“ Yes, do come, papa will be very glad to give 
you his welcome, and they will be at home very 


soon. 


DOUGLAS; TENDER AND TRUE. 


167 


CHAPTER XI. 

OLONEL DACEE on leaving Muriel had 
^*$=7 gone to Major Wheatley’s. He knew that 
Miss Lily Wheatley, a society belle, had been re- 
cently married, and he rightly surmised that they 
were the friends with whom Cecile had been stay- 
ing. Mrs. Wheatley told him that Mrs. Vincent 
had, much to their regret, been called home, and 
had gone away the evening before the marriage, 
and they had not heard from her since her arrival 
at her own home. Making his adieu he hurried to 
the station, only arriving in time to board the 
train. He felt that it was the longest journey 
on the slowest trains. Would they never get 
there. Station after station was passed. It 
was the hour of dawn when they arrived at his 
destination. A cup of coffee at the hotel, then 
he hastened to her home. A housemaid told 
him that her mistress was at the grave- 
yard, she had gone early to place fresh 


168 


DOUGLAS ; TENDER AND TRUE. 


flowers on her baby’s grave. He took hasty 
steps to that churchyard. Yes, there standing 
near the tall, white shaft, was a slender, dark 
robed figure. If a knife had been at his heart 
he could have felt no more pain than to see her 
there, desolate and alone, her only solace that 
little grave. In a moment he was by her side, 
in another moment his arms were around her, his 
pride all forgotten. 

“ Cecile, my wife. I have come for you. My 
heart is lonely without you, my darling.’ ’ 

The pretty head from which the little bonnet 
had fallen, lay contentedly against his bosom. 

“Oh! Godfrey, my husband, you do forgive 
and love me, then? ” 

“ Forgive, ah, sweet, do not ever speak the 
word, unless it is to say, Godfrey, I forgive and 
love you.” 

“ Then,” she said, “ forgiveness and love are 
yours.” 

“ Cecile, my wife, no cloud must ever again 
come over our lives, no shadow ever rest between 
us. Here by the grave of our child we two 
become reunited for time and eternity.” Then 


DOUGLAS ; TENDER AND TRUE. 


169 


pressing her to his heart, he said, “ Your resting- 
place forever, sweet.’ ’ 

“ Oh, how I have longed for you,” she mur- 
mured. She told him of the dead baby. “ It 
was so like you, Godfrey, I gave it your name. 
It had your golden hair, your eyes, and when it 
would smile at me, it was your image and my 
heart would cry out in bitter and unceasing 
longing for you, and when the pretty eyes were 
forever closed, oh, my heart seemed turned to 
stone. Will God ever forgive me for all those 
hard thoughts and bitter words? But, oh, I was 
so young, so desolate, and alone.” 

His tears mingled with her own. 

“ Oh ! my love, I sought you far and near, and 
all to no avail. I cannot see how I lived through 
that most unhappy time. I think Muriel alone 
kept me from becoming deranged.” 

“ How came you to know?” she asked glanc- 
ing at the little grave. 

“ My little daughter pointed out the way. I 
also made inquiries of Mrs. Boyce.” 

“Tell me all,” she said, her hand smoothing 
his hair in a caressing way. 


170 


DOUGLAS ; TENDER AND TRUE. 


The touch of the soft hand, the tender voice, 
were too much and his nerves had been sadly 
unstrung. Bowing his face upon her head, he 
wept such tears as she in all her life had never 
known a man to shed. 

She tried to comfort him with loving words, 
“Oh! Cecile, I am thinking of our happy 
past, and all those miserable years, the first, a 
sweet broken dream, the last a sad reality/’ 

“ Godfrey, I will teach you to forget all those 
intervening years and, dear, the broken dream 
has ended in a sweet reality.” 

“ Yes, for this is the only happy moment I 
have known since the good-bye kiss you gave me 
yonder at our little home.” 

“Now, tell me of Muriel.” 

“ She in speaking of life here in Texas (while I 
was in the Virginia army) told me of a lovely 
lady, who had lived with the lady where Muriel 
found a home; also told me of visiting a little 
grave on which it was her delight to put fresh 
flowers every day, her Auntie Boyce had told her 
about the little one, and often mentioned how 
it resembled Muriel. A short while ago I asked 


DOUGLAS; TENDER AND TRUE. 


171 


the baby’s name ; she said it was Godfrey, adding, 
4 I think I loved it for its having your name, 
papa.’ I knew all then and came to Mrs. Boyce 
who, before she went North, brought me here and 
pointed out the little mound.” 

“How strange. Mrs. Boyce was the lady 
with whom I found a home.” 

“ Then you knew Dorrance Vane?” 

“ Yes, he gave me a home with his foster- 
mother; she proved a friend to me in my need, 
and has since been as a mother to me.” 

“ Can I again make you happy and content? ” 

“ Yes, Godfrey, my heart feels so rested now.” 

“ I must take you home ; Muriel bade me 
hasten and bring her mother to her.” 

“ Did she call me mother? ” 

“ Yes, those were her very words.” 

When en route for his own home, he said to 
her, “ Darling, it was only a few hours ago, that 
I knew of what you had done for my little 
Muriel.” 

“ Our Muriel now,” she said. “Was it the 
knowledge of that little deed of love, that bent 
your pride, my husband?” 


172 


DOUGLAS; TENDER AND TRUE. 


“ That and my great love for you/’ 

“Truly a kind act will in time, bring its own 
reward ; mine has brought my love to me.” 
Kissing his handsome face, “ Oh, Godfrey, how 
have I ever lived without you? ” 

Sitting near the open window Muriel anxiously 
awaited their arrival. Now they had come ; yes, 
there was her father; the girl’s eyes grew moist, 
as she noticed the radiant look upon his face, 
and with him was a lady of wondrous beauty. The 
girl’s heart stood still as she looked upon that 
lovely face. The lady came quickly forward, 
and putting her arms about Muriel’s neck kissed 
her again and again. 

“My darling,” she said, “I have longed 
to kiss and thank you for all those lovely 
flowers that these dear hands have ever placed 
upon my baby’s, your own little brother’s, 
grave.” 

“ My little brother!” in such a tender tone. 
“My own little brother; oh, mother, I felt all 
the while that something drew me there.” 

“We needed no introduction, Godfrey,” as 
Col. Dacre came to receive a kiss and caress from 


DOUGLAS ; TENDER AND TRUE. 


173 


his daughter. “ She is also my daughter now, I 
have held her in my heart for a long while. ,, 

After they had chatted awhile, Muriel said : 

“Papa, we have a visitor; ah, he is coming 
now,” her face taking on a pretty flush, as 
Douglas Grant entered the room. 

“You see I could not remain away very 
long,” as bending over her chair, he pressed his 
lips upon one little hand. The young fellow’s 
face flushed as Col. Dacre came forward. 

“ Why, Grant, my dear boy. When did you 
arrive ? ” warmly grasping his hand. 

“ I reached here yesterday.” 

“ Cecile, this is a dear friend of Muriel’s, and 
mine. Mrs. Dacre, Mr. Grant.” 

“ Then I hope to claim him as my friend,” 
offering her hand. 

“ If so I must be Douglas to you, as I am to 
Col. Dacre, and the little one,” with a tender 
glance at the girl. 

“ Indeed, you shall be.” They passed an 
hour in pleasant converse, then mammy was 
called in. 

“ Dear nurse,” said Muriel, “ this is the 


174 


DOUGLAS ; TENDER AND TRUE. 


mother of whom I told you.” The old servant 
came forward. 

“ You must shake hands with me, mammy, 
and I must beg a share of your kindness,” said 
Mrs. Dacre. 

“ Bless you, honey, ole mammy's heart is 
big enough for all four children,” glancing at 
Douglas. 

“ Yes, Mrs. Dacre, I am one of her children, 
too, and have been for a long, long while.’ ’ 
And now the old negress hastened out to prepare 
luncheon. 

A few days later Mrs. Dacre said to her 
husband. “ Godfrey, I have fixed one of the 
spare rooms nicely, thinking, perhaps, that you 
would like to ask your young friend to stay 
with us while he is in our part of the world. Do 
you think it will do?” She anxiously asked, 
after having taken him on a tour of inspection to 
the room in question. 

“Yes, it is very nice; Cecile, love, you are 
a sweet, dear, thoughtful little woman, I was 
wishing that we could ask him here,” was the 
fond reply. 


DOUGLAS; TENDER AND TRUE. 175 

“ I am so glad that I have pleased you.” 

“You always please me. Your tender heart 
ever prompts you to graceful deeds of kindness 
that helps to make glad the lives of others.” 

“Your praise is very sweet; yet, dear, you 
must not make me vain. All these years I have 
not had a kind and tender heart.” 

“ Cecile, dear love, your heart was never other- 
wise than the kindest, most loving heart in all the 
world, my greatest wonder is that you could ever 
forgive me.” 

“ Do not think of it any more” she said, as 
she smoothed his soft hair. “I am again your 
Cecile of the olden time. You must get well 
and strong and that will make me happy.” 

The same evening while Cecile was busy with 
some household duties, Muriel sitting near 
watching the face she thought so lovely, the two 
men walked up and down the flower yard, ear- 
nestly engaged in conversation. 

“Colonel Dacre.” The young man paused in 
the walk, and swung around facing his companion. 
“ Do you remember telling me yonder that if 
ever I claimed a favor, you would grant it?” 


176 


DOUGLAS; TENDER AND TRUE. 


*< Yes, and right gladly will I fulfill that 
promise.” 

“ Do not deem me presumptuous, yet now, my 
heart almost fails me as I ask for permission to 
woo your daughter to be my wife? ” 

“ You cannot mean it! my baby, my own 
little Muriel, she will never marry; she is a mere 
child ; I cannot spare her, poor little one.” 

“ Do not call her ‘ poor little one,’ ” cried the 
young fellow, with a ring of pain in his voice. 
“ She is rich in all that is good and beautiful. 
Do not say me nay. I will not urge that prom- 
ise. I stand only on my merits. May I try 
to win her? You know not how carefully I 
will watch over your darling’s welfare, with 
what loving care I will ever cherish her. Would 
you know when my love for her began? When 
first my eyes rested on her sweet, angelic face. 
Yet it seems as though she had ever formed a 
part of my being — that in some former state of 
existence — if such things be — we had known 
and loved each other. She seems so much a part 
of my life — every throb of my heart is hers. 
Give her to me. I swear to make her happy.” 


DOUGLAS; TENDER AND TRUE. 


177 


How could Colonel Dacre resist the pleading 
tones ? His voice was full of anxiety as he asked : 
“ Does Muriel know aught of this? ” 

“ Not unless my eyes have told my secret. 
How could I, in honor, tell her of my love until 
I had seen you? Yet, I have wanted to take her 
in my arms, to tell her how well I love her, and 
to woo her love in turn. No, I have not said 
one word of love to her.” 

“ Douglas, have you thought well of this step 
that you would take? My child, sweet and beau- 
tiful, good and pure, yet a cripple, poor little 
soul,” his voice grew hoarse, “and for her afflic- 
tion there is no cure. You, so young, the world 
open before you in which to make your choice.” 

“ Col. Dacre, I have thought of nothing but 
this for years, it has been my dream by night, 
my study by day to woo and win Muriel for my 
wife. Her affliction is no barrier; if she loves 
me nothing can ever come between us. She, 
so frail and delicate, will need me, even as I want 
her in my heart and home, for 1 have a home 
fitted up for my darling, I feel that she will not 
say me nay. May I tell her of my love?” 

12 


178 


DOUGLAS; TENDER AND TRUE. 


“ I do not see how I can refuse, yet it grieves 
me even to think of giving her into the keeping 
of another. I had never thought of suoh a 
thing.” 

“ How strange,” said the young man, “ while I 
had thought of nothing else for years. Yonder 
I told you I would claim a boon.” 

“ Yes, and I can do no less than grant it.” 

“Thanks, Colonel,” grasping his hand. 
“ Now, may I go to her? ” 

“ Yes, I well know how anxious you are. Oh ! 
here comes Cecile. My dear, this young fellow 
is wishing to take Muriel from us.” 

“Mrs. Dacre,” said the young man, “Will 
you give me Godspeed in my woing of your 
daughter?” The bright, glad look on the 
handsome face went to her heart, 

“ If I do, you will not wish to take her from 
us all at once. You know I have had her such a 
little while.” 

“Then I have your good wishes,” as warmly 
pressing her hand he hastened away. 

“ What a brave young lover. His impetuosity 
makes me think of your wooing.” 


DOUGLAS; TENDER AND TRUE. 


179 


“Yet he will never bring a cloud over my 
Muriel’s life, as I brought over yours.” 

“ Never think of that again, dear love. I only 
trust he may be as tender to her as you have ever 
been to me. I can wish her no greater happiness 
than that her life may be as happy as mine is 
now.” 

Hastening to the house, the young man entered 
the parlor. Near a low window sat the girl, her 
small hands idly folded in her lap. A flush 
covered the exquisite face as he came to her side. 
The glow upon his face, the love-light in his eyes 
told his love as plainly as any words could have 
done. A feeling of shyness crept over her, as 
in pitiful confusion her soft eyes drooped away 
from his face. 

“ Douglas,” she said, “ I have not made you 
a ‘ button-hole ’ yet. Get some flowers for me, 
please.” 

He gathered a white rosebud and a heartsease 
and carried them to her; her trembling fingers 
pinned them on his coat, then the little hands 
were held firmly clasped in his own. 

“ Don’t send me on another errand, darling, 


180 


DOUGLAS; TENDER AND TRUE. 


not even for flowers. Your father knows of my 
love. I have come with his sanction to tell you 
that you are all the world to me. Little Muriel, 
I want you to be my own. Can you trust your- 
self to me for all the years to come ? My darling, 
can you love me well enough to be my wife?” 
Lower, still lower, drooped the pretty head. He 
put his arm around her and drew her to his 
bosom. “Is it my wife?” as with one hand he 
raised the lovely face. What he read in the 
sweet, shy eyes told him all he wished to know, 
he pressed a kiss upon her lips. 

“ Now, tell me that you love me, and that you 
will be my wife. I wish to hear the very 
words.” 

“ Douglas,” now the sweet face had lost all 
the pretty rosy glow, “ Douglas, do you know 
what you would take upon yourself? Oh ! if I 
were like other girls, how happy I would be this 
day, and how proud of your dear love; yet, 1 can- 
not mar your future. I will always be your 
friend.” 

“ Hush, dear, I will take no words of refusal. 
Let me tell you something? I swore the first 


DOUGLAS; TENDER AND TRUE. 


181 


time I ever saw you, that some day I would hold 
you in my arms as my wife, and, presumptuous, 
was it not? yet, love, that oath holds good, and 
my wife’s head is now against my bosom. I am 
a very determined fellow. I wish to hear you 
say, ‘ I love you.’ ” In a sweet, shy manner she 
said, “ I do love you.” 

“ Muriel, will you be my wife? ” 

Again the sweet lips murmured what he wished 
to hear. 

“ My darling, your promise makes me the hap- 
piest man on earth.” 

“ Douglas, if you were ever to regret — ” 

“Do you know so little of me, love? You 
have called me tender and true. You will find 
that I will ever be so to you, and you do love 
and trust me.” 

“ I think I have always loved you,” she said, 
“ My heart feels so full of rest and content, oh, 
if you ever grew weary of me my heart will 
break.” 

“ Don’t let such a fear ever enter your gentle 
heart, my life will be one thought of you, and 
darling,” here his voice grew troubled, “You will 


182 


DOUGLAS; TENDER AND TRUE. 


not love me less because I fought on the other 
side." 

“No, never," she replied, drawing his face 
close to her own, while for one second her lips 
light as the touch of a rose leaf rested on his own. 
“ Had you not been on that other side, I would 
have been fatherless that day." 

“ Do you know, little one, the fear that dis- 
tressed me, was that you might turn from me on 
account of the color of the coat I wore." 

“ You see, you were wrong, for my heart went 
out to you, yonder at the old home, when you 
were so kind to me and mine. Do you know 
papa had never been more tender to me than 
were you in those days — and I felt as though I 
had known and loved you all my life." 

“ Did you care as much for me in those days 
as you cared for Dorrance Vane ?" 

“Yes, perhaps I ought not to tell you, yet I 
thought more of you than of any one except 
papa. I was so glad it was your hand that gave 
my father aid. I was drooping so when that 
Northern paper came and, oh, it gave me most 
exquisite joy. I think there are no words to 
express what I felt." 


DOUGLAS ; TENDER AND TRUE. 


183 


“ My darling, you wished to serve me all your 
life, what I wish is to love and care for you all 
my life, and it will be my happiness to serve 
you.” 

“ I will be such a burthen to you.” 

“ No, darling,” a great pity in his heart, “ no, 
my only love, no burthen, only a dear sweet 
care. Cannot I make you understand, little one, 
how well I love you, and how my heart has 
thirsted for your love? Look in my eyes, sweet, 
they will tell you all.” 

What she read in the dark eyes satisfied her 
tender, loving heart. 

“ Do you know, Douglas, I have often wished, 
when tired and lonely, that I were a child again 
and resting in your arms, my head on your bosom, 
and the very wish sometimes gave me rest and 
peace.” 

Her quaint talk always charmed him, and he 
was never far from her side. 

Their talk always veered to the dear old times. 

“Did you think that I was a very passable 
little girl? ” 

“Passable,” he cried, “why I thought you 


184 


DOUGLAS ; TENDER AND TRUE. 


the very loveliest child in all the world. I 
remember I told my Colonel so, and he said, 
you were the sweetest child he ever knew. Let 
me show you something? ” 

Taking a note book from his breast pocket, 
he took from between the leaves a card which he 
handed to her. 

“ Oh ! Douglas, it is my own self.” 

“ Yes, as I first saw you, and when you won 
my heart. Sleeping in your little wicker chair. 
It was there that the work was done for me. 
What a wee atom of humanity you w r ere, I have 
often thought, to win a man’s heart.” 

“ Now I do envy that little girl, although it is 
myself,” she said. 

The grave, earnest tone made him smile. 
“Here is my other treasure,” handing her 
another card. 

“ Yes, that is the Colonel, he is holding me in 
his arms, and I asleep ; oh, Douglas, how you did 
love me then.” 

“ How I have loved you all the while,” he 
said, a glad, happy light in his dark eyes. 

The days were full of happiness for those young 


DOUGLAS ; TENDER AND TRUE. 


185 


hearts. Once a group of girls rode gaily past, 
the wistful look she cast after them went to his 
heart. Glancing up she met his gaze, her eyes 
filled with tears. 

“I do not mind,” she cried, “ only for your 
sake.” 

Putting his arms about her, he said, “ You are 
dear to me as you are, so, love, do not mind for 
my sake any more ; you are my tender house 
plant to love and cherish all my days.” 

“ Douglas, I have so often wished that I were 
not a cripple. Yet thoughts of papa and you 
gave me strength to bear it, and when you came 
your love made life so beautiful that I tried not 
to mind. Oh, it is so hard that when you come I 
can never go to meet you ; oh, it is hard.” 

“ Do v not mind, for I will always hasten to you, 
so don’t be down-hearted, little love, I must cheer 
my sweetheart up.” 

If his heart had gone out in pity to her in her 
lonely childhood, how much more was his love 
and pity now that he saw her in the bloom of her 
girlhood, cut ©ff by her great affliction from all 
youthful pleasures. A feeling of tenderness 


186 


DOUGLAS ; TENDER AND TRUE. 


stirred his heart and he longed for the hour to 
come when his love would be the only haven 
of rest for her. He named an early day. 
At first Col. Dacre would not listen to the 
proposal. 

“ Help me, dear Mrs. Dacre,” said the young 
man. 44 It is not a mere selfish wish to claim her 
as mine own. She is so fragile, her face grows 
thinner day by day. Let me have my darling. 
I will take her to the shores of sunny France, 
that sweet clime will give her health and strength. 
I am not at ease about her health,” his voice 
would tremble. It was all that he could do to 
keep from breaking down. “ It is my darling’s 
life for which I plead; oh, Colonel, give her into 
my keeping.” 

“ It shall be as you wish.” 

Cecile went to work with a will ; soon every- 
thing was in readiness for an early marriage. 

Such a pale, thin little bride was Muriel, a 
mere child, she looked, as she stood in her robe 
of white, her lover’s arm around her waist to 
support the slender form ; now the beautiful 
ceremony over, he lifted her in his strong, young 


DOUGLAS; TENDER AND TRUE. 


187 


arms. “ My own, my treasure forevermore,” 
as he kissed cheek and brow and lips. “ My 
darling, my wife.” 

In a short time he had everything in readiness 
for the journey. The parting was an affecting 
one. 

“ Take care of my baby,” was all that the 
father could say, as he wrung the young man’s 
hand. 

“Let us hear from you very often, and do 
not keep her from us longer than you can 
help,” said Cecile, as she gave him a good-bye 
kiss. 

“ Rest easy, dear mother, don’t let him 
grieve, I will take care of her; you will not 
know her when I bring her home. I predict 
wonderful changes for my darling.” 

In his arms he carried her into the train ; as 
though she were a child he held her, the dainty 
head resting against his shoulder. 

“ It is so sad to leave them,” she said. 

“ I know it, dear, yet,” and a wistful ten- 
derness was in his voice, a world of entreaty 
in his dark eyes, “You will try, for my sake, 


188 


DOUGLAS ; TENDER AND TRUE. 


not to grieve over the separation. Cheer up, I 
am going to show you how tender I can be. ,, 

Never for a moment did lie leave her side, 
always ready to point out some object of interest, 
to relate some amusing anecdote, to read to her, 
or oftener still would he speak of war days, or of 
his childhood. 

“And you had no one to love you, Douglas ?” 

“No one, darling; you taught me that first 
sweet lesson.” 

“ And no relatives? ” 

“Yes, I have two cousins; they live in 
South Carolina. He was in the Southern army, 
fought through the war, came out safely, is 
married and has a family. The sister is the 
saddest little woman I ever saw ; her lover was 
killed there in Virginia. My heart ached for her 
when I saw her. They say her only interest in 
life is centered in little Harry, her brother’s 
child, and strange to say the little fellow is the 
image of her dead lover.” 

“ Oh, how T I would like to know her. I would 
love to comfort her,” cried Muriel. 

The journey, though slow, was not a tedious 


DOUGLAS ; TENDER AND TRUE. 


189 


one. He made it very pleasant for her, and she 
was at rest in his loving care. The exercise 
brought a faint tinge of color to the pale face, 
and strength to the delicate frame.” 

“You will be a stout little woman yet, my 
darling,” cried the young man, so delighted to 
see the sweet color come to the pretty face. 

“ Do you wish me to be a very large woman?” 

“ No,” and he laughed aloud, “ the very idea 
is amusing, you suit me as you are; only a small 
armful for me, yet,” his voice grew very tender, 
“ I want to see you in good and perfect health, 
that is the wish of my heart.” 

“ I am feeling so much better than for a long 
while.” 

“ It makes my heart light and happy to hear 
you talk that way.” 

France was reached. They went to Paris, 
there he engnged rooms at a hotel; every luxury 
that wealth could command was lavished on the 
young wife. He never grew weary of seeking to 
give her pleasure, and never left her alone. 

“ Do not you feel lonely sometimes, and want 
other company?” she said to him. 


190 


DOUGLAS ; TENDER AND TRUE. 


“ No, you fill every wish of my heart, I want 
only you.” 

He took her drives in the early morn, and the 
afternoons spent together were never long to 
them. One morning she had sent him on some 
little errand, on his return he said to her: 

“ Do you remember my telling you about my 
kindred? they are here in Paris. I met Phil 
to-day ; he will bring his wife and his sister to see 
you this evening.” 

“I am so glad. I hope that they will like 
me.” 

“ They cannot help loving you, I think too 
they will win your heart. You know I don’t 
have a great fancy for large women, yet Phil’s 
wife is an exception to the rule. She is a splen- 
did woman, large and fair, and her heart is as 
good as gold. I met her once for an hour ; yet I 
am fond of her.” 

“ I think I will be fond of her, too,” said Muriel. 

The same evening they came. 

“ Is this our little cousin?” and Phil Graham 
clasped in his own one little hand. 

“ Cousin Phil, you must excuse me for not 


y 


DOUGLAS; TENDER AND TRUE. 


191 


coming to receive you,” she began, a wave of 
crimson going over her faco. 

“ Don’t, darling,” said her husband. “ Never 
talk about excusing. I am the one to make ex- 
cuses for rushing in on you like a great whirl- 
wind, and taking you by storm,” said the kind, 
cheery voice of a large, fair woman, who came 
quickly forward, and stooping, kissed the girl. 

“Yes, as you took the citadel of my heart by 
storm several years ago,” laughed Phil. 

Next came a slim dark-robed girl, in a second 
her arms were about Muriel’s neck, and in that 
moment they were friends forever. 

“Oh! What a lovely child,” cried Muriel. 
“ Come and kiss me, baby? ” 

He came, she kissed and caressed him. 
“ How I love children.” 

“ We will lend Harry to you whenever his 
auntie can spare him,” said the mother. 

“We will claim him very often, won’t we, 
Douglas? ” 

“ Yes, dear,” then to the child, “ This is 
cousin Muriel.” The fair woman turned 
quickly. 


192 


DOUGLAS; TENDER AND TRUE. 


“ Such a sweet, curious name,” she said, “ I 
never heard of but one person who bore the name, 
a mere child, she too a 99 — here she paused. 

“ Was she a cripple?” said Muriel, “ well, that 
was strange.” 

“ Forgive me, the child I mention was a pet 
of my dear father’s, a little angel he always 
called her, and often held her up as a pattern for 
his romping Madge’s benefit ; her name has ever 
been a dear household word with us. You do 
remind me of her picture. A little rough drawn 
sketch, yet papa prized it so, that he would not 
even give it to me, and the child had such a 
lovely name, Muriel Dacre.” 

“It is my little Muriel, she is Muriel Dacre 
Grant, and I made the sketch that your father 
has.” 

“ Let me kiss you once, Madge, for your 
father’s kindness tome? ” cried the girl, “Ican- 
not walk or I would come to you,” tears spring- 
ing to the sweet eyes. 

“ Never mind, I shall come to you,” and 
Madge’s arms enfolded her in a warm embrace, 

“Pear little thing. Why, who would ever 


DOUGLAS ; TENDER AND TRUE. 


193 


have thought it? And won’t papa be glad? He 
has often wondered where and how you were,” 
kissing again the pretty face. “He told me 
about how you would darn his socks and mark 
his handkerchiefs,” and now a suspicious moisture 
creeping to the clear, blue eyes, “ He told of how 
you had said that you would pray that soon he 
might go home, and I would come to meet him. 
Your dear, childish prayers were answered. 
Father’s eyes grow dim now when he speaks of 
little Muriel.” 

The girl was crying softly now. 

“ Don’t cry. I think it is the strangest thing 
^and the nicest to have met you and Douglas,” 
looking at him, an unasked querry in her eyes. 

“ I was your father’s lieutenant at that time,” 

“And you let the little one grow up, then 
sought and married her?” 

“Yes, I always intended it to turn out that 
way,” fondly smoothing his wife’s sunny hair. 

“ Do you know, papa often wondered why you 
left him, and next, why you threw aside your 
•commission as Captain of Artillery? ” 

“I will tell you why I did so,” he said. 

13 


194 


DOUGLAS J TENDER AND TRUE. 


“Very well; I know it was for some good 
deed. If I had any rivals in my father’s heart,, 
beside my mother, it was Muriel here and 
you.” 

The evening passed most pleasantly ; now it 
Was time to go. 

“ Douglas, you must bring her to us to-mor- 
row,” said Madge. 

“ Yes, Douglas, please bring her in the morn- 
ing, will you?” asked the wistful voice of his 
cousin Louise Graham. 

“ Yes, with pleasure, I know that she will be 
glad to be with you again.” 

Even as they reached the door, the child ran 
back to Muriel, crying, “ Pretty lady.” 

“ That is father’s own boy,” laughed gay Phil 
Graham, “he is like his papa in his love for 
pretty ladies.” 

Muriel kissed the little one. “ Now I wish I 
could take you up in my arms, dear?” 

“ So you shall, love, if you wish it,” and 
Douglas lifted the child to her lap. 

“Oh! What a darling! I can hold him 
easily ” as she clasped him closely to her. “ You 


DOUGLAS ; TENDER AND TRUE. 


195 


must love me too, little Harry. ” For answer he 
drew her face down and kissed her on each eye. 

44 That is the caress he gives his auntie when 
he loves her very much, he kisses her eyes,” said 
the mother. 

After they had gone Muriel said, 44 Oh! 
Douglas, I like them very much, and to think 
that I would ever see Madge, his rosy, romping 
Madge, and that little child. I feel those sweet 
kisses on my eyelids even now. What a little 
angel he is? ” 

44 I never knew but one child that was an 
angel,” said the young man. 44 Only one, my 
Muriel, all other children are bad, I think. I 
expect you will find Hal a spoilt pickle, with 
those three grown people to humor him.” 

44 And we are two more to help spoil him ; yet 
no matter dear, how bad they are, I think chil- 
dren, little ones, are ever next door to heaven’s 
gateway.” 

44 The fancy pleases you, sweet, well, I will not 
gainsay it.” 

“Then we can have little Harry with us 
often.” 


196 


DOUGLAS; TENDER AND TRUE. 


“ Yes, love, every day if you wish it, but 
mind I won’t have even little Harry and his 
French kisses weaning you from me.” 

“The very idea!” and she laughed such a 
gay, girlish laugh that his heart grew light. 

The next day he took her to their home, a neat 
villa on the outskirt of the city, a lovely place, 
and such a warm welcome awaited her. Harry 
came with outstretched arms, and had to be 
lifted to her lap. 

“You are too heavy, son, you will weary Cousin 
Muriel.” 

“ Oh ! please let him stay,” as the child’s head 
rested contentedly against her bosom. 

“ Don’t you think our place here a nice one? ” 
asked Phil. 

“Delightful, and oh, what lovely flowers !” 

“ You want some flowers,” aud Douglas went 
and brought a great cluster of geraniums, and 
other dainty blooms. 

“ Do come and take a couple of our rooms, we 
have several spare rooms, and never any visitors 
for longer than a day; say that you will come, 
I am sure it will do Muriel a world of good.” 


DOUGLAS ; TENDER AND TRUE. 


197 


It was arranged that they would accept. 

“ Oh ! Douglas, how nice it will be, we can 
have Harry running in an’ out all day.” 

“ Yes, love, you shall have that pleasure.” 

Months have elapsed, the soft clime, the sweet 
fresh air had done wonders for Muriel, the thin 
face had rounded out, there was a warm tint on 
the cheeks, and a bright light in the pretty eyes. 
Louise Graham also seemed benefited, she was 
no longer sad and listless, her health was better, 
and seeing each day the patient unselfishness of 
the little cripple, made her feel that in nursing 
her sorrow she was more than selfish. The boy 
too had grown so fat and heavy that Douglas had 
forbidden him to climb in Muriel’s lap, saying to 
him : “ Why, Hal, you will soon be large enough 
to hold Cousin Muriel in your arms,” which idea 
seemed vastly to delight the little lad. 

He and Douglas always vied with each other as 
to who would bring for her the loveliest flowers. 

A celebrated physician had returned. The 
papers teemed with accounts of the wonderful 
cures he had performed ; he was also noted as a 
surgeon. 


198 


DOUGLAS; TENDER AND TRUE. 


A few weeks later Douglas said to liis wife : 
“ You are feeling muck stronger and better? ” 

“ Ok ! muck better than I ever expected to 
be. I have never felt so well in all my life. ’ ? 

“Muriel, darling/’ putting kis arm around 
her, “ Do you remember bearing Madge ask me 
why I had left her father’s command ? Also why 
I had given up my commission as Captain of 
Artillery ? ’ ’ 

“ Yes, I remember.” 

“ Dear, I will tell you why, much to my Col- 
onel’s sorrow, I gave up my place with him. At 
the same time a commission as Captain of Artillery 
came. You see I was a fine civil engineer, so 
this commission came direct from the war de- 
partment. I knew that I would not keep it s 
yet the very day it came a battle was to be 
fought. I did not wish to go to that battle 
field, yet something drew me on, any way 
I turned I could see the sunny gleam of your 
golden hair. I could see your earnest eyes, 
could hear the sweet tones of your voice, which 
seemed to lure me on. I went, yet, sweet, not 
one gun did I point that day. When I saw your 


DOUGLAS ; TENDER AND TRUE. 


199 


father, I knew him, and I knew that God had 
directed that mine was the hand to save him, and 
even then came to me the knowledge that in 
time God would give you into my love and 
keeping. After that battle I went to my Colonel, 
also to the surgeon, who had attended on your 
father ; by their aid I obtained a place as assist- 
ant on the surgeon’s corps. During the remainder 
of the war, I studied surgery in all its branches, 
thinking, my darling, that some time I might 
bring relief to this poor little crippled frame. 
Now Dr. Verner has returned I wish him to see 
you ; I myself will work your cure.” 

“ Douglas,” a little hand was on his head, “ I 
never knew until now how tender and true a man 
could be, all those years you were thinking of 
trying to aid a poor little lame girl ; dear, they 
say that mine is an incurable malady, yet, dar- 
ling, remember that if I am not benefited, the 
knowledge of the sweet thought you have had 
for me, will always fill my heart with gladness.” 

“ I do not intend to fail ; with God’s help, I will 
accomplish my desire. Believe me, you could 
not be dearer to me, yet, love, I have seen your 


200 


DOUGLAS; TENDER AND TRUE. 


eyes grow sad as you watched others, and I 
have known how you so longed for pleasant ex- 
ercise; even when you were a child I noticed 
the yearning that would often fill your lovely 
eyes.” 

“ Oh! Douglas, if you fail it will hurt your 
heart, even more than mine,” now tears would 
come. 

“ I know no such word as fail,” and his arms 
tightened around the little form, “ Oh, my sweet* 
do not say it, for I cannot fail.” 

The old physician came, and after a close ex- 
amination, he said, “ I think you may be 
relieved.” A great pity was in his heart. 
Laying his hand on the fair young head: “ I 
will help your husband all I can, I think he 
will have success.” Turning to Douglas, “ I 
will come to-morrow; your wife has sufficient 
strength, if she has the nerve, the operation 
will be painful, yet not by any means danger- 
ous.” 

“ I will have the nerve, for his sake, Doctor,” 
she whispered. 

“ That is right ; I will come to-morrow.” 


DOUGLAS; TENDER AND TRUE. 


201 


The next clay he came. Maclge came in the 
room with him. 

“Muriel, I too must be near you, and Doug- 
las, if you need me my hand is firm and as 
steady as your own.” 

She stood there bathing the girl’s head while 
Douglas performed the surgical operation, the 
old physician standing near. Never for a sec- 
ond were Muriel’s eyes taken from her hus- 
band’s face, not a sigh escaped her, yet her 
lips were white with anguish, and her eyes dark- 
ened with untold pain, while great drops stood 
upon her brow. 

Douglas, his lips compressed, his face pale as 
that of the dead, yet with a hand steady and firm, 
did his work with the skill of a practiced sur- 
geon. Once the girl’s agony was so great that 
she saw him as in a mist and far away, then his 
voice: “My Muriel, my darling,” called her 
back to life, yet even then she made no moan, 
and now the task was over. 

“ Douglas !” she called. In a second he knelt 
beside her, his courage, his firmness all gone* 
his form trembling like an aspen. 


202 


DOUGLAS; TENDER AND TRUE. 


“ Oh ! love,” he cried. “ I wish I could have 
borne it for you.” 

“You would not have stood it half so .well. 
She is a brave little woman and full of nerve,” 
said the doctor kindly. “ Ths is the most painful 
operation. In a week’s time I will come again, 
the next will not be one-half so severe, and it will 
grow lighter each time, in a few months you can 
take your evening ramble ; and, yes, you will 
also be able to toss that rosy young scamp, 
Harry.” 

“Oh! Doctor Verner, I am so glad, for 
Douglas’ sake, you know.” 

“ Poor little soul. Do you never think of 
yourself ? ” 

“ No, she only thinks of Douglas,” said Madge. 

It was as Doctor Verner had predicted, each 
time the pain grew less, and now came the day 
when she, with her husband’s arm about her, 
walked a few steps across the room, he taking 
her in his arms carried her to her chair; a week 
later he would assist her around the room. One 
day on coming home, she met him at the door, 
the sweet face radiant. 


DOUGLAS; TENDER AND TRUE. 


203 


“ Oh ! love, I can come to meet you now,” the 
glad young voice told of all that had been want- 
ing in that sweet life, his own heart so full of 
a great gladness that he bowed his head upon her 
shoulder and sobbed aloud. 

“ Douglas, my darling, do not cry.” 

“ My wife, I could never tell the thoughts that 
filled my heart as you came to meet me, or of the 
pity I felt for you for all those years you have 
been tied to that little chair.” 

“ Douglas. How can I ever repay you for all 
you have done for me? ” 

“ By getting rosy, and bright and happy.” 

“ Ah, I think I have been too happy.” 

Now she could take evening rambles, always 
accompanied by her husband, his watchful eye 
ever upon her, being afraid that she might take 
undue exercise. 

“ How glad papa and mamma will be,” she had 
said, yet they would not write a word about the 
wonderful cure, she would “ step in ” some time 
and surprise them. 

“ How glad they will all be, and old mammy, 
why Douglas, the faithful old soul has wept 


204 


DOUGLAS ; TENDER AND TRUE. 


many tears over me, and I do wonder if Nero 
will know me?” 

“Could any one, or anything ever forget 
you?” he asked as, with lover-like fondness, he 
smoothed her sunny hair. 

The months flew by. The years numbered 
three that sunny France had been their home. 
They had quite a number of friends, as several 
American families were on very intimate terms 
with the Grahams, and they became charmed 
with Muriel. She had lost some of her shyness, 
yet enough remained to make her very charming 
to the eyes of those worldly, fashionable people, 
who so often thronged Mrs. Phil Graham’s 
elegant drawing-room. 

One morning, coming home, Douglas found 
Muriel her golden curls all braided around her 
pretty head. 

“ Why, sweet, where are all my pretty curls? ” 

“Those curls make me appear so childish, I 
know people think so, and that is why I dressed 
my hair to day.” 

“ Let people think what they will, and say 
what they please. I like the curls best.” 


DOUGLAS ; TENDER AND TRUE. 


205 


In a moment the braids were taken down and 
the thick soft curls fell around her shoulders. 

“Then I will never try to be grown up any 
more. ,, 

“ Don’t, ” he laughed, “I like my child-wife 
best.” She never seemed to get weary, always 
busy. 

Madge said to him: “Your wife will kill 
herself. She is busy all day, never thinks of 
resting.” 

And he said to Muriel : “ You must not work. 
You will make yourself ill.” 

“ Oh ! no, I am very well, and I love to work 
for you,” was the fond reply. 

And now he made her rest, for the day came 
when her hour of trial was at hand. Madge was 
with her. She it was who placed the little one, 
such a stout healthy babe, a girl, in the young 
father’s arms. A flush covered his face as he 
pressed his lips to the tiny face, then laying it 
on] the mother’s bosom, he said, “You have 
made me very happy, my darling.” 

“I am glad, and tell me, Douglas, do you 
think her a pretty baby? ” 


206 


DOUGLAS ; tender and true. 


“Yes, I thinkso. And she is avery pretty baby.’ ’ 

“Douglas, I am glad that her hair and eyes 
are dark.” 

“ I wish she had your golden curls.” 

“ Oh ! no, I want her to look like you.” 

A few days later, she said to him, “ Don’t you 
want to take the baby? ” 

“ Darling, I might hurt her.” 

“ Oh ! no, you are careful. You will not hurt 
her.” 

“ She is not as delicate as was her little 
mother,” he said, taking the infant tenderly in his 
arms. “ Look, Muriel, she seems to know me.” 

“ Of course, she knows her father.” 

A smile went over his face, then a look of 
almost womanly tenderness, as the little dark 
head dropped contentedly against him. “ Dear 
little thing,” he murmured, walking with it up 
and down the room. 

“ Douglas, you are spoiling her, she will expect 
that walk every day.” 

“ Well, I have a right to spoil my own baby.” 

“But then, Douglas, you will make a little 
piekle of her.” 


DOUGLAS ; TENDER AND TRUE. 


207 


44 Very well, she will be our pickle.” 

44 Oh ! will they not love her? My dear papa 
and mamma will spoil her too.” 

44 Yes, but they have one of their own, you 
must remember.” 

44 I do not forget, and I am so anxious to see 
their little Douglas,” after a pause. 44 You 
must name our little one.” 

44 Then we will call her Dorrance Vane,” he 
said. 

44 Ah! I am so glad you guessed my wish. 
Dorrance will be so proud and pleased.” 

44 1 have not forgotten that his baby girl is 
named after you, my love.” 

44 1 think I would be very fond of his bo}\ I 
like that child’s face in the picture — such a very 
pretty boy.” 

44 Yes, he is John Hood, after the famous 
leader of the Texas Brigade, to which Dorrance 
belonged.” 

44 He was always very fond of General Hood.” 

In the weeks that came the baby girl grew fast. 
So many loving hands were there to tend her, 
and she was never long at a time out of the 


208 


DOUGLAS; TENDER AND TRUE. 


young mother’s arm. Now they talked of going 
home. The Grahams had delayed their trip, 
waiting for Muriel to regain her strength, that 
they might make the journey together. Douglas 
spoke of getting a nurse. 

“ Do not think of it, dear,” cried Muriel, “ I 
will take care of the baby.” 

“We will often spare Sarah to you, for since 
your baby came, my boy considers himself too 
large to be nursed,” said Madge. So they 
went in ono party on their homeward route. 

At New York they separated, Muriel telling 
little Harry, that sometime he must come after 
his sweetheart. 

“ I will keep her for you Hal, no one else shall 
have my girl.” 

“ Mind how you make promises,” laughed 
Douglas. “ He might some day hold you to your 
word.” 

It was early in the morning when they reached 
home. Col. Dacre was in the yard when the 
carriage drove through the gate-way. 

“ Cecile, darling, here are visitors ! ” 

She hastened out; a gentleman sprang from the 


DOUGLAS ; TENDER AND TRUE. 


209 


carriage, and lifted out a lady who, turning, put 
a baby in his arms, she hastening forward. 

“ Oh ! papa, mamma ! Don’t you know me?” 
The next moment she was clasped in her father’s 
arms. He could only kiss her again and again, 
his emotion was too deep for words, at last he 
said : 

“ Oh ! my baby. How glad I am ! ” 

“I knew you would be, Douglas cured me. 
He did it all. Forgive us for surprising you?” 

“ God bless you, Douglas,” clasping the 
young fellow in a close embrace. 

“ Nobly have you fulfilled your promise,” said 
Cecile, “ for we did not know her, 1 and she is so 
stout and rosy. Oh ! what a sweet baby,” tak- 
ing it from the father’s arms. 

© 

“ Ah ! there is mammy, and oh, Douglas, our 
little brother.” 

The old nurse had to cry over her “ chile. ” 
“ So glad I is, honey, to see you walking, now 
ole mammy can close her eyes in peace.” 

“No, my dear old nurse, you must not think 
of that for long, long years to come. You must 
help me to raise my baby,” then taking the 
14 


210 


DOUGLAS; TENDER AND TRUE. 


little brother in her arms: “ Yon see, mamma, 
how stout I am. I can manage this splendid 
boy, and he is large and heavy. Looks iike you 
and me, papa, such lovely golden curls.” 

“Yes, dear, and his eyes are like my Muriel’s.” 

“ Here is Nero, and he knows me,” patting 
the dog fondly on the head, for he was at her 
feet barking with delight. 

“Oh! was ever a more joyous home-coming, 
or ever a warmer welcome? ” Then fondling the 
child: “I will love you very much, baby, and 
you have my Douglas’ name. Papa, mamma, I 
can wish your boy no better fortune, you no 
greater blessing, than that he may be like my 
Douglas, tender and true.” 
























































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